With Quill in Hand
by Imo-chan
Summary: The boys as a troupe of Shakespearian actors struggling with treachery, guilt, and puberty. Duo-the-streetpunk is cast across from Heero in the female role, while Wufei has to deal with the everpresent threat of eviction and some demons from his past.
1. Part 1

1 Author: Imo-chan  
  
Title: With Quill in Hand – pt 1  
  
2 Genre: AU. Shakespeare. ^_^  
  
3 Disclaimers: All not mine. Except for the excerpts from the play at the beginning. Those are Wufei's. And no one would want them, anyway. ^-^'''  
  
4 Summary: A story about the G-boys as a troupe of Shakespearian-type actors struggling with treachery, guilt, and puberty. ^.^ Quatre's voice breaks and in his place, Duo-the-street-punk is cast across from Heero in the lead female role, while Wufei has to deal with the everpresent threat of eviction and some demons from his past.  
  
5  
  
6 Warnings: AU - set in a made-up world very similar to Great Britian during the Renaissance, but not exactly (just cause I don't wanna be historically correct!!) Yaoi in later parts, 1x2, 4x?. Angst, Evil Zechs, SUPER-evil Treize, non-graphic rape. A bit of humor.. come on, Wufei's a playwright and Heero's an actor.. *cough* that's gotta be good for a few laughs. Plus, Crazy!Dorothy. Yay!!  
  
Notes: thanks go to Blue for the beta, and to the loyal followers of this evil fic who still manage to hang on despite the fact that I CAN'T write it. Grar. Thank you!!~ *glomps*  
  
7  
  
8 Bane: It is the iron shackle  
  
That binds my wrist to her wing  
  
This that is the cruelest snare  
  
This that is my saviour  
  
And yet will be nothing more than pain for her.  
  
Alas, destiny can be so unkind  
  
Even with the shortest breath  
  
She hath caused a tumultuous affair.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
[The 23rd of April, 1564, on the grounds of the Yuy Manor]  
  
A youth of fifteen, with hair the colour of España chocolate and eyes like burning blue suns sat sternly upon his white horse, watching the night- darkened clouds as they gathered menacingly, like a thousand dark grey snakes, above him. A furrow formed between his dark brows and he scowled darkly at the threatening sky. Shifting nervously in his saddle, he glanced at his companion who was also staring anxiously into the sky.  
  
"She should have been back by now, Heero," the stern one's companion muttered uneasily. His long blond hair flew back from his shoulders as a wind that smelled of storm and destruction whipped past the two youths to travel on and stir the canopies of the distant trees into a dark verdant frenzy. The stars in the sky were rapidly disappearing as the billows of storm clouds formed the hovering pregnancy that was the coming onslaught.  
  
"I know," the dark one murmured in reply, his eyes still searching the horizon for a sign of life that didn't scream 'storm'.  
  
"Did she go back to manor?" Heero's companion offered hopefully, ice- blue eyes glancing somewhat yearningly back at the safety of the house.  
  
"Perhaps," Heero scowled darkly at the dark gathering of trees that signaled, even in the blackness of the looming night storm, where the forest of the Manor grounds began.  
  
"Heero?" The tall blond clicked his tongue at his horse and made to turn back to the shelter of the manor house.  
  
Heero held up a steady hand and shot a dark look at his friend. "Just a few more minutes, Milliardo, My Lord," he said softly, his eyes turning back to scan the trees.  
  
"Heero…" Milliardo's golden brows tightened with worry.  
  
"What would you do if it was Her Highness who was missing, instead of my sister?" Heero asked tersely, his voice as dark and heavy as the weighty clouds overhead.  
  
The blond prince paused in his saddle; his eyes of blue frost were filled with sympathy as they passed over Heero's straight and determined stance and the ominous forecasting of the wind and tumbling clouds.  
  
"All right then," Milliardo sighed against the increasing wind, "Just a few more minutes."  
  
Heero looked back, lines of thanks showing faintly on his usually impassive face. He opened his mouth to speak when the sky split with a shriek of light and sound; a forked tongue of electric noise collided with the ground, and Heero's head snapped around to watch as the forest was engulfed in a brilliant flicker of light, before being plunged into the inky blue of the storm as the rain began to fall in torrents.  
  
Without any warning, Heero spurred his horse forward into the downpour, his eyes haunted by immense anger and worry. The blond prince started after him with a strangled cry, but his horse shied as another fork of lightening licked the ground and cracked the sobbing sky.  
  
"Heero!" Milliardo screamed against the wind, but the form of his friend had already disappeared into the flashing night that streamed tears of stinging water. "Heero!" He called again, desperate, casting one more almost furtive glance back at the manor house, before plunging head long into the waiting storm, after his friend.  
  
Once again, lightening split the sky with a shrill crackle of destruction.  
  
  
  
Milliardo Peacecraft could barely make out the dark, blurred silhouettes of the trees as he plunged through the forest, bent low over his steed's neck, the rain pounding like a million stinging tears into his eyes, his hair, his clothes. The night was very dark, albeit for the frequent flashes of lightening that lit up the sky with the booming accompaniment of the thunder, and the prince could hardly see the beaten path that wound through the forest. With hasty violence, he wrenched one hand away from the reins to wipe hurriedly at his eyes, to try and clear his vision of the torrents of rainwater. He would never find Heero in this weather, he knew, and he could only hope that his childhood friend had had the good sense to find shelter somewhere. But Milliardo knew, in the hot and burning part of his mind that screamed worried reality, that Heero would never leave his sister to the storm. After all, it had been he, Heero, who had let the younger Yuy venture out on her own steed. If anything happened to her… Milliardo shuddered at the thought of Heero's reaction.  
  
Another crack of lightening sounded, and was seen, very near; the fork licking at the dome of the swirling indigo-grey sky. Milliardo felt the flames of anxiety sear his heart as the flash lit the weeping world, and he pulled harshly on the reins, his horse nearly sitting with the force of the halt. He immediately thought it best to find some place to wait the storm out, or at least continue on at a slower pace; for he could barely see his hands in front of him, the torrential rain and swirling dark made it impossible to see. Pulling the hood of his coat over his golden head, he placed a hand over his brows to shield his vision from the violent rain, hoping to gauge some indication of where Heero had gone.  
  
He could see nothing but darkness and hear nothing but the roar of the wind and rain.  
  
He drew in a shaking breath and pulled the cloak tighter around his body, urging his skittering horse forward with his heels, when the slippery ground fell out from underneath his steed's hooves and both horse and rider plunged down the sudden slope of the muddy path. Milliardo pulled back hard against the thrashing, sliding horse, as its hind end tucked underneath it, causing the right flank to come in contact with the rain- drenched slope. As the horse fell backwards, Milliardo's coat snagged on a branch as both animal and man slid downwards and the blond prince was forced off his steed; he tumbled from the saddle and found himself rolling through the sea of mud as his horse was thrown forward, out of the restrains of his rider's hands. Immediately after feeling solid ground under its hooves, the frightened animal squealed and bolted, leaving Milliardo buried in thick, oozing mud that seeped like dark blood into his already soaking clothes. With a low groan, he watched as his horse dashed off into the darkness of the trees. Pulling himself up, the wind tugging at his heavy, thick, dirt-laden cloak, he growled in frustration, and brushing mud-covered bangs out of his eyes, he cursed into the storm after his rapidly retreating steed.  
  
Milliardo sighed against the howling wind, and the lightening flashed in answer. With another violent oath, the blond prince stamped his foot in frustration; unfortunately the ground was still wet, and the mud held little support for Milliardo's wrath, and down he went again, collapsing in an undignified heap of long, golden dirt-matted hair, mud-spattered clothes, and flailing limbs.  
  
  
  
The prince picked his way carefully through the aftermath of the storm, the moon and stars which had emerged after the clouds receded made it much easier to see, and Milliardo could once again hear the reassuring rush of the nearby stream that gave him his bearings. Lightly straddling a fallen tree, the Peacecraft prince scanned the still dripping forest-scape, searching for a sign of Heero and his sister. Despite his own luck in escaping the squall more or less unscathed, Milliardo still had his worries as to how well the Yuy children had endured. Heero, no doubt, would have been able to handle himself. He was only a year younger than the blond prince, and already, Milliardo would admit (although grudgingly) that the elder Yuy son was a better marksman and a better warrior, although his social skills were somewhat lacking. However, the youngest child of the family, the sister to Heero; not only was she still unsteady on a horse, but also, she tended to be a bit irrational. As well, the horse she was riding was not a trustworthy animal. Any number of things could have happened to her…  
  
In almost direct answer to his worries, Milliardo heard a soft whinny of a horse, very nearby. The prince sighed in relief, shifting uncomfortably in his still-wet cloak and leaped over the fallen tree, spurring himself, despite the fatigue towards the direction where he had heard the sound.  
  
"Heero!" He called loudly, hoping to gain some bearing on his friend's location.  
  
There was no answer; only the eerie calm of the whispering leaves, the steady dripping of the reminiscent rainwater, and the soft rushing of the nearby stream.  
  
"Heero!" Milliardo called again, crashing through some low underbrush, emerging into a small, sheltered clearing surrounded by a small slope of the land. There, in the bowl of soaking verdant grass, knelt the elder Yuy, his back to Milliardo, his head bent over, and his horse standing watchful nearby.  
  
The figure, however, did not move.  
  
"Heero! I've found you," Milliardo sighed cheerfully, struggling confusedly with the strange, alarming silence. He attempted to move to greet his friend, but found his cloak was tangled in the low growth. He snarled and yanked free; the force of the sudden entrapment lessened sent him once again sprawling towards the ground. Rather ungraciously, he caught himself and half-slid, half-bounded down the small slope towards his immobile friend.  
  
"Heero?" He called again, a nervous smile edging his young features. "What on earth are you doing sitting down there? For God's sake, the ground is wet!" He laughed lightly, hoping to induce a reaction.  
  
"Heero?" He asked again, the smile dropping from his face. As he approached closer, all became obvious, and he stopped, eyes wide and hands trembling.  
  
"Hee – " His voice stuck in his throat.  
  
"Oh…" He paused, breath hitching, "Oh no."  
  
And Heero moved. His upper body twitched, and his head rose ever so slightly, and turned to the side, the movement barely visible. He looked like a blind man searching for a murmur, the eyes were distant, unfocused and the pain was raw. His hands clenched and unclenched, like kneading claws, in the matted, dirty hair of the young girl that lay sprawled across his lap. The moonlight spilled through the leaves of the trees and across her broken form, casting little, swirling shadows along her face and neck, like grotesque markings of ash and soot. Her eyes were open and empty, her young face twisted in shock and a half-second of pain, her body was twisted in a sickening fashion; her neck was broken.  
  
Milliardo let out a half-sob, taking a hesitant step towards the nauseating scene. His body was screaming for him to run, but his mind demanded that he salvage his friend's soul.  
  
Heero blinked owlishly at the sound, and his eyes traveled slowly back to the dead girl on his lap. He was still silent, and Milliardo found he had the strength to approach him, placing a muddy hand upon the soaking shoulder. He felt Heero convulse slightly under the touch.  
  
"My lord?" The fire in the voice was gone, quenched by the torrents of rain that poured from his unfocused eyes. Heero sounded as though his very insides were raw and bleeding, the words were no more than a ghost before the pain that was relayed in the tone.  
  
"Heero…" Milliardo choked the words from his throat, forcing his lips to move.  
  
"I killed the horse," Heero's lips were blue. "Its front leg shattered when it fell. It was going to die anyway, I think."  
  
Milliardo forced himself to reach down and run a trembling hand over the dead girl's eyes, forcing the placid lids closed. Somehow, that simple action faded the horror that throbbed in his mind.  
  
"I didn't mean for her to die…"  
  
There was silence again, and the blond prince knelt beside his friend, gauging the reaction as Heero drew in a shaking sigh, and closed his eyes. Milliardo knew what was coming, and he once again, forced the words past his lips.  
  
"I won't tell them, Heero," he rasped, "Not if you don't want me to."  
  
Heero eyes snapped open, and he scowled darkly, his eyes looked more than a little confused as he concentrated on the face of his dead sister.  
  
"Thank you," he murmured, and his voice was gagged with the beginnings of unrelenting guilt.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * 


	2. Part 2

1 Author: Imo-chan  
  
Title: With Quill in Hand – pt 2  
  
2 Genre: AU. Shakespeare. ^_^  
  
3 Disclaimers: All not mine. Except for the excerpts from the play at the beginning. Those are Wufei's. And no one would want them, anyway. ^-^'''  
  
4 Summary: A story about the G-boys as a troupe of Shakespearian-type actors struggling with treachery, guilt, and puberty. ^.^ Quatre's voice breaks and in his place, Duo-the-street-punk is cast across from Heero in the lead female role, while Wufei has to deal with the ever-present threat of eviction and some demons from his past.  
  
5  
  
6 Warnings: AU - set in a made-up world very similar to Great Britian during the Renaissance, but not exactly (just cause I don't wanna be historically correct!) Yaoi in later parts, 1x2, 4x?. Angst, Evil Zechs, SUPER-evil Treize, non-graphic rape. A bit of humor.. come on, Wufei's a playwright and Heero's an actor.. *cough* that's gotta be good for a few laughs. Plus, Crazy!Dorothy. Yay!!  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
Sophia: Here I sit with quill in hand,  
  
Ready to inscribe upon my fate  
  
That which is mine future.  
  
A blot of inky blood would so twist my resolve  
  
Of what truth can I be sure?  
  
  
  
[The 6th of May, 1569, in the township of Hathaway]  
  
Many hours ago, the long, sweltering day had collapsed in night; the cobbled streets, habitually teeming with boisterous citizens, were now washed with shadow. Sporadic patches of warm, golden light cast from the lantern posts lit the facades of the buildings lining the street. The light from one such mounted lantern shone through the leaded window of a room situated above a shadow-splashed sign that read: The Gilded Serpent, Tavern. The stippled golden shafts of light slithered through the diamond panes, illuminating a sharp, thin face half-buried in crossed arms. Darkness spilled across the olive skin, mottled with light that slid across the slick, jet-black hair and prominent cheekbones, deepening the shadows of the closed lashes. The dark head lay on the surface of a large oaken desk, strewn with papers and quills, and spotted with ink. Several candles were arranged upon the mess, red and white wax hardened into grotesque sculptures in the speckled light. One, the wax still warm and the wick still smoking, dripped several large, red blotches onto a stack of yellowed paper with a quiet 'plop-plop' sound. The young man lay sprawled upon this clutter; under his head was a thick pile of newly written-upon manuscripts, and his hands were arranged just so, the quill – still dripping with ink – lay carelessly by his lax fingers, so that it was clear that he had drifted off in the process of creating his writings.  
  
From downstairs, the sound clearly traveling through thin wooden floor planks, came the muffled thud of a door slamming shut, and several noticeably audible footsteps that made the building creak. The sleeping man shifted his head in his half-slumber; a black streak appeared on his cheek where his sleeping face rubbed over a still-wet sentence. Footfalls sounded on the rickety stairs, the noise causing the sleeping man's lashes to quiver in acknowledgement. The door to the small, shadow-sheathed room opened, spilling thick candlelight across the floor in a pattern that outlined the shape of another man, who cast a curious, almost sympathetic, glance at the image of the slumbering writer. The visitor stepped into the room, gently closed the door behind him, and approached the desk, light rippling over long golden bangs and his small round face. The golden visitor bent over the collapsed figure of the dark young man and smiled gently, although his effeminate face was slightly rueful. He patted the dozing writer on the arm, and the dark head stirred, lashes slowly opening to give way to a pair of slightly sleep-befuddled, jet-black eyes. The dark young man blinked several times into the face of his gently smiling visitor, and then glanced down at his desk. His face twisted into a dark scowl, and he uttered a soft oath.  
  
"Shouldn't have fallen asleep," he muttered in a voice still thick with drowsiness.  
  
"Shouldn't have been staying up this late," his companion admonished in reply, placing a slender hand on the other's arm.  
  
The dark-haired young man scowled again, and rubbed his temple, a sour expression furrowing his brows. When he said nothing, the golden man ventured, "How did the… meeting… go?"  
  
With a sudden flurry of movement, all hint of sleep disappeared, the raven- haired man swore with angry vitality and pushed away from his desk, sweeping the parchments, candles, quills and bottles of ink off the surface with a loud and furious crash of sound. The visitor gave a sharp gasp as the objects smashed into the far wall, and the papers fluttered like a thousand flustered doves to the floor. The livid writer stood hunched over the desk, knuckles white with the force of the grip as his hands clenched the edge.  
  
The was a moment of tense silence, where all that was heard was the harsh, ragged breathing of the dark-haired young man and the 'drip-drip' of the ink as it trickled off the desk.  
  
"Not too well then, I take it, Wufei?" The blond hazarded apologetically.  
  
"NO! No, not too well, Quatre," the writer sneered, sighing angrily.  
  
"I… I'm sorry…" Quatre fidgeted with his long trench coat nervously, his slender fingers toying with the large black buttons.  
  
Wufei took another angry sigh and pursed his lips as he glared at the blond. "It's not your fault, you imbecile. I told you that before!"  
  
Quatre dipped his golden head in acknowledgement. He collapsed, somewhat dejectedly, into the nearby chair and toed his tall boots off. He then stood, arranging them neatly by the door and sliding the heavy trench coat off his thin shoulder to sling the collar over a small wooden hook mounted on the wall. Glancing back at Wufei, who was grudgingly trying to arrange his papers in something resembling order, Quatre sighed softly and rubbed his arms, which were suddenly very cold.  
  
"You let the candles go out," he commented, his eyes looked slightly dazed.  
  
Wufei snorted. "That tends to happen when you fall asleep, Quatre."  
  
"You've been working too hard."  
  
"No, I haven't," the writer growled, "I've been sitting at my desk staring at blank pieces of parchment for hours on end. Then I write one sentence, one stanza, and drift off. That's not working, Quatre," Wufei sneered. "That's wasting precious time."  
  
"Plus the fact that we no longer have an actor to play the lead," Quatre murmured offhandedly.  
  
"Yes, that too – " Wufei rolled his eyes and then bit down on his words, turning to glare sharply at the blond.  
  
Quatre was silent, and his bright eyes were downcast.  
  
"Stop doing that," Wufei grated through clenched teeth. "It would have happened sometime… and it really has nothing to do with Treize…"  
  
"I'm still sorry though…"  
  
"Look," Wufei said tiredly, trying to cover up his embarrassment of Quatre's apology. "It would have happened like this, whether or not your voice decided to change. Treize has had his eye on us ever since I gathered you three up. It makes no difference… it's not your fault - "  
  
"But it would have made things easier…" Quatre cut it.  
  
"Well, yes…" Wufei faltered. "It just gives him an edge in this whole ordeal."  
  
Quatre looked utterly crestfallen.  
  
"Come on," Wufei began angrily. "Leave it alone, all right? We'll find another person to play the role."  
  
"Before opening night…?"  
  
"Before opening night." Wufei's tone was final, and he turned to gather up the results of his anger that lay broken and strewn hazard on the floor.  
  
Quatre was silent for a while. Then, as Wufei turned back to dump an armload of papers and quills onto the desktop, he sighed.  
  
"And what if Monsieur Treize decides that's a problem?" He asked quietly  
  
Wufei glanced up, glaring out through the leaded window to the shadow- strewn street below.  
  
"There won't be a problem, Quatre," the playwright grinned darkly. "We fight him until the end."  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Pater: Ah, such are the hazards of our fortune.  
  
To be graced with such opportunity,  
  
Yet to have such aspirations snatched away in the filthy fingers of so low a soul – So base a creature.  
  
His features are too encrusted with the dirt of privation,  
  
For me to glimpse a cause for worship.  
  
Daughter, thine eyes have been clotted with his filth;  
  
What glory do you see in him?  
  
He is a usurper of gentle hearts.  
  
You owe him nothing,  
  
But you owe me much.  
  
[Earlier that night]  
  
"Monsieur Chang, if you don't mind me saying so – "  
  
"I think I do mind, Treize."  
  
"We're not going to get anywhere if you continue to converse like this, Monsieur." Treize Kushrenada smiled gently behind folded hands, sheathed in white gloves. His ginger hair, neatly slicked, was illuminated crisply by the candelabras placed on either corner of the immaculate desk – the light reflected gaily off the crystal windows behind him and the impressive display of swords and weapons in the case situated to the right of the desk. His shirt was clean, and flawlessly white, gathered smartly at the wrists with dark red ribbon. His expression was calm, as flawless as his clothing in its indifference. His voice held a gracious note; its politeness somewhat deceived by the fact that Wufei, in his ink-stained tunic and seething eyes, was not pleased with the display.  
  
"Oh, stop that!" The dark-haired playwright finally snapped, irritable.  
  
"I beg your pardon?" The elder responded, a hint of ice tingeing the edges of his voice.  
  
"Stop calling me that," Wufei snapped, irate. "You haven't called me 'Monsieur' in your life, you stuck-up prig."  
  
Treize coughed delicately.  
  
"You heard, me, Treize. Don't pretend as if it's a lie," Wufei shot up out of his chair, whirling to face the case of swords, his thin, young face was contorted as a myriad of emotions swept past his eyes. The young playwright scowled darkly, hiding his confusion and distress at the situation.  
  
"I told you, Wufei, that if you continued as you were, we would eventually become enemies," Treize remarked coolly, unfolding his hands from under his chin and plucking a long scarlet quill from his desktop, dipping it daintily in the ink well. "Now," he continued, "I have here the contract, to be signed by you, of course, that will ensure that we do not have to go through an ordeal like this again."  
  
"What?!" Wufei turned, his face livid, his voice reaching a hysterical shriek. "What exactly are you doing, Treize?"  
  
Trieze seemed less than unfazed at the outburst. "This is contract that will sign The Queen's Men over to The Rose," he said slowly, as though explaining things to a very young child. "In doing so, you will no long have to worry about your…" Here the ginger-haired man paused, "…Your financial problems."  
  
"You mean I won't have to worry about anything, you son of a whore! It means I sign Quatre and Trowa and Heero and the Globe over to you, and then you can do what you wish with me, that's what it means! It means you can, once again, eliminate the competition – "  
  
"Wufei," Treize cut in softly, ignoring the insults, "This is a peaceful resolution of a scenario that could very well result in bloodshed… if we aren't careful."  
  
"Ah yes," Wufei sneered, "The peaceful approach again. And what would you do with me THIS time, Treize? Hm?" Wufei advanced menacingly, placing his quivering hands against the side of the desk as Treize glanced nonchalantly up at him. "You've lied, caused my family to cast me out of my home, stolen the one thing I ever loved, left me to rot in the streets of the Capital; what could you possibly do this time that would be worse?" Wufei's arms were shaking with the pressure of his anger. "Kill me? Yes, that would solve the problem wouldn't it? But, you'd never stoop to stain your hands, would you? Not when Meiran has you under such close watch!"  
  
Trieze gave the first sign of annoyance in the entire evening; his eyes narrowed and he delicately dropped the quill back into the receptacle. "Monsieur Wufei, I would appreciate it if you left my wife out of this affair."  
  
Wufei growled and whirled away from the desk, storming across the room and grabbing his long, grey, threadbare, coat from the wall. He tugged violently on the door and it banged loudly against the wall as it flew open; Wufei made to leave, his face set and rigid in anger, but turned in the doorway, his coat half on, his hair falling in his face, his eyes bright with emotion. His placed the heels of his palms against the doorjamb and glared directly into the icy eyes of his adversary.  
  
"As far as I am concerned, this meeting never happened. And, she may be yours, Treize," he said slowly, "But The Globe is mine."  
  
With a whirl of thin, grey fabric and glowing, inky eyes, he was gone, his footsteps echoing loudly as he thundered down the stairs and out into the dusk of the cobbled streets.  
  
Treize watched the angry little form as it faded into the dusky shadows, and then turned and chuckled softly, his eyes trailed slowly over the sword case. With slow, graceful movements, he crossed to the case, swung a key from off his belt and unlocked the glass. Sliding it open with careful precision, he ran his fingers lightly over the top of the blade of a sword that hung at his eye level. It was long and slender, the hilt was black and silver, and a large pommel stone of dark scarlet was set in the ebony handle. The gem was etched slightly with age, the markings looking for all the world like tiny bolts of cherry lightening. Treize ran his gloved fingers over the jewel, delicate tracings the markings, before pressing lightly against the stone. It slid back into the hilt easily with a satisfying clank, and the sound of several, loud 'click-clicks' followed directly afterwards. Treize waited patiently, tapping his other white- gloved finger against his cheek, and presently there was another sound, another loud clank that echoed deeply in the room. Treize smirked.  
  
"You may come out now, Zechs," he said, sliding the glass into place and locking the case. He stepped back and the case swung open, very slowly, tentatively, as a tall figure, nearly as tall as Treize, stepped out.  
  
He had long golden hair, was dressed smartly in hose of dark blue and a flowing traveling cloak of darkest black. His eyes and the upper portion of his face and head were hidden behind an elaborate silver mask that glinted sharply in the candlelight.  
  
"What do you think?" Treize asked, turning back to his desk and neatly rolling the contract up, placing it in a drawer.  
  
"It would have gone well, I think, if he hadn't made that little comment about your wife," the only visible part of Zech's face, his mouth, twitched in a smirk.  
  
"Ah yes, the green-eyed monster rarely releases its hold on old grudges."  
  
"It's more than a grudge, Treize," Zechs smiled and unclasped his cloak, hanging it on the hook. "If you're not careful, you could wind up with a sword in your back."  
  
"From that young upstart?" Treize dismissed Zech's comment with the wave of a gloved hand. "A quill perhaps, with a very sharp nib…" he chuckled softly, "But a sword, never."  
  
Zechs smirked again, the lighting played darkly with his hidden features.  
  
"We will continue to sap his strength from him, Zechs," Treize continued nonchalantly, "Until he has nothing left, and you no longer have the need to wear that mask."  
  
"And then, perhaps," Zechs tilted his head in question, "Prince Milliardo can return from Deutschland?"  
  
"Of course," Treize replied, "I think that both you, he, and I can agree that this ordeal has gone on for far too long."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
c&c feeds me. ^-^  
  
*opens mouth* 


	3. Part 3

1 Author: Imo-chan  
  
Title: With Quill in Hand – pt 3  
  
2 Genre: AU. Shakespeare. ^_^  
  
3 Disclaimers: All not mine. Except for the excerpts from the play at the beginning. Those are Wufei's. And no one would want them, anyway. ^-^'''  
  
4 Summary: A story about the G-boys as a troupe of Shakespearian-type actors struggling with treachery, guilt, and puberty. ^.^ Quatre's voice breaks and in his place, Duo-the-street-punk is cast across from Heero in the lead female role, while Wufei has to deal with the ever-present threat of eviction and some demons from his past.  
  
5  
  
6 Warnings: AU - set in a made-up world very similar to Great Britian during the Renaissance, but not exactly (just cause I don't wanna be historically correct!) Yaoi in later parts, 1x2, 4x?. Angst, Evil Zechs, SUPER-evil Treize, non-graphic rape. A bit of humor.. come on, Wufei's a playwright and Heero's an actor.. *cough* that's gotta be good for a few laughs. Plus, Crazy!Dorothy. Yay!!  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
Juno: Sophia… She is Mephistopheles in a gown of golden leaf.  
  
[On the evening of November 1st, 1566; The capital city of Lesfleurs]  
  
"I love you, My Lady."  
  
A soft, nervous giggle. "I do believe you're drunk, my prince."  
  
"Absurd. I had barely enough to drown a fly." Then again, "I love you."  
  
"You know, I think the Queen was calling me," faltering footsteps began.  
  
"Don't ignore me, please," a hint of the still-youthful pathetic whine. "I love you, Lucrezia."  
  
"Oh, don't!"  
  
"My lady… Lucrezia," a hesitant touch upon a perfect pale arm,  
  
"Remove your hand!" Frantic swish of fabric signalled the rejection louder than any words. Panicked eyes, once wide, tightened with insult.  
  
A step forward. "But… I love you."  
  
"And I want nothing to do with you! You're drunk, Milliardo!"  
  
"You don't mean that," another step, and a hesitant grasp at sliding, silky fabric, wishing for all the world it was skin. "I love you."  
  
"Leave me alone!" A slap on the groping hand.  
  
Rejection struck like an arrow. "You can't tell me to do anything. I'm the Prince."  
  
"You're the Queen's brother! You're a sniveling, pathetic excuse for a child with dirty hands and dishonourable thoughts! You'll leave me be, Milliardo or I'll tell your sister!"  
  
Lace sliding hurriedly along the marble floor, the whisper of exit louder than the abuse shouted into his ear as the abandoned prince slumped drunkenly to the floor, sobbing into his hands, which smelled of bittersweet escape. He grasped for self-pity, hearing the muffled sounds of lute, violin, singing sickly-sweet voices of happiness that wafted through the open window as guests filtered like little perfect dolls of politeness through the open doors of the hall. He heard his beloved's voice, like the now-detestable, ever-desired ring of a siren's call:  
  
"My Lord Yuy! Wonderful to see you again, it's been such a long summer! And Heero… my Youngling Lord," a soft giggle, a tease, "You've grown since I saw you last!"  
  
Milliardo rose, hands digging frantically into his pockets, finding the crushed form of the mask he was to wear tonight before the sun set. Flushed, angry, drunk, he crammed it on his golden head, the rich velvet form caressed his burning skin like the coarsest chaff.  
  
//Tonight I can forget myself…//  
  
  
  
The main hall was aglow with laughter and light, the world spinning in whirlwinds of colours, sounds, smells, and the dizzying giddiness of fine red wine. The skirts of the royal ladies flounced and swirled like a thousand passionately painted flowers, every delicate line of lace, every tearing diamond tiara, every layer of chiffon, was lighted red in the dying autumn sun – they looked as a handful a drunken roses, laughing, tilting their heads as though their slender necks could not hold the weight of their coiffed heads. They held half-masks delicately in gloved hands, slanting their eyes coyly through the slanted eyeholes, shaped like spiced almonds. They laughed and span with the drunkenly spinning world, everything was magnified at this time; the magic of the hallowed night, the mystery of the disguise and dark approaching, and the glasses of sunset-red wine that splashed noisily in crystal goblets. The men, with dark, rich- coloured doublets glittering with medallion ornamentations, hair as carefully curled as the ladies, moustaches and goatees teased into perfection, curls and curves and waves lying faultless against reddening noses and cheeks as they consumed more and more of the freely-flowing wine. Their masks covered their faces, hooked with clasps or fitted like helmets, leaving their hands free to consume more food, drink more wine, and lose themselves more completely as the sun set into All Hallows Eve.  
  
The Queen sat like a porcelain doll, watching only with her cornflower eyes, her face a gentle mask of acceptance beneath a mask of royal blue and diamonds which was held loosely in her hand; the position poised and regal. Noin giggled girlishly beside her, skin flushed with the excitement of the fete, and the Lady Meiran, with raven black hair coiled high, and mouth painted like a little ripe plum, whispered coyly in return, both pairs of masked eyes searching the tipsy crowd for another such disguised admirer. Noin rose from her seat beside the Queen, and curtsied once, but was stopped before she glided off through the crowd by a gentle hand on her arm.  
  
"Yes, my Queen?"  
  
"Where are going, Noin?" Relena asked quietly.  
  
"Only out to the gardens, to get some air, my Queen. It is very hot in here," Noin replied with a faint smile.  
  
"Yes, it is," Relena smiled knowingly. "Well, do hurry back, the sun has almost set, we wouldn't want for you to miss the unmasking."  
  
"Of course not, my Queen."  
  
Noin slipped off through the giddy, painted, masked crowd, and Relena resumed her position, watching her courtiers perform as strangers to everyone including themselves. The world had dissolved into a rainbow of faces, grotesque with loud laughing, hand slapping, and gaudy dancing. How she wished she was as lost as they were, so she wasn't required to comment on the silliness of it all. Relena sighed behind her hand as Meiran slipped behind her and laughed softly into her ear.  
  
"Unhappy, as always, my Queen?"  
  
"Ah, Meiran," Relena started. "No, not unhappy… simply disappointed with the lack of mystery tonight."  
  
"Lack, my Queen?"  
  
"Perhaps it is mysterious for you, then. I have no identity to mask for Hallows Eve," Relena traced a slender finger along a line of lace on her dark dress.  
  
"Perhaps that is a blessing, my Queen. You will never know what you miss by being truthfully you," Meiran's red lips grinned wickedly.  
  
"Drink has twisted your logic dreadfully, Meiran," Relena giggled.  
  
"That it has," the woman agreed, mocking rue played underneath the mask. "But I can safely say that tonight, no one but you, my Queen, would notice."  
  
Relena chuckled and nodded, eyes grazing the drunken orgy of food, bright fabrics leaking colour in the fading light, cherry sparkles shining through the wine-filled goblets.  
  
As the world collapsed into darkness, and the hall was suddenly plunged into candlelight, Relena rose, and addressed the room. Her voice was a single clear note in a world of blurring colour, but she forced a note of joviality and mystery into her tone. At her signal, the sun set completely, the world was dark, the moon was bright, and the guests removed their masks. It was to be a moment of magic, an uncovering, supposed to be a fantasy world shattered in cheerful goodbye to not-self, but as the eyes emerged from behind cloth, a scream rang out, ringing like a siren's call, as immediately sobering as the drink was potent.  
  
Lucrezia Noin burst into the hall, her pale dress stained dark with shadow and the foreshadow of blood, her face – the mask ripped away – was drawn and frightened, tears falling like the disheveled pearls arranged in her hair. The startled, newly-revealed crowd parted like the waves as she plunged through the glass doors and past the walls of people to collapse boneless, frightened, sobbing hysterically on the marble floor.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
more coming... *dies*  
  
stupid fic. x_X 


	4. Part 4

1 Author: Imo-chan  
  
Title: With Quill in Hand – pt 4  
  
2 Genre: AU. Shakespeare. ^_^  
  
3 Disclaimers: All not mine. Except for the excerpts from the play at the beginning. Those are Wufei's. And no one would want them, anyway. ^-^'''  
  
4 Summary: A story about the G-boys as a troupe of Shakespearian-type actors struggling with treachery, guilt, and puberty. ^.^ Quatre's voice breaks and in his place, Duo-the-street-punk is cast across from Heero in the lead female role, while Wufei has to deal with the ever-present threat of eviction and some demons from his past.  
  
5  
  
6 Warnings: AU - set in a made-up world very similar to Great Britian during the Renaissance, but not exactly (just cause I don't wanna be historically correct!) Yaoi in later parts, 1x2, 4x?. Angst, Evil Zechs, SUPER-evil Treize, non-graphic rape. A bit of humor.. come on, Wufei's a playwright and Heero's an actor.. *cough* that's gotta be good for a few laughs. Plus, Crazy!Dorothy. Yay!!  
  
Notes: You wanted the Duo? You got the Duo. ^-^ We have a Duo!  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
/Sophia: O spirit of the night, who crawls beneath the shadows,  
  
Hide not your face from kindly eyes.  
  
Who art thou?  
  
Bane: No spirit, my good lady, for the freedom of such state is unattainable to mine heart. And, I fear you would find the shadows through which I crawl to be too dark and dank for such a dainty hand. Why place a name to such a base belonging?  
  
Sophia: I shall not have excuses of the mocking side.  
  
Who art thou, that follows me through the night?  
  
Bane: A plague.  
  
Sophia: I wish you would not tease me.  
  
Bane: No tease, my lady. I am Bane. A pestilence upon your greatest houses, a disease to all who wish for greatness and prosperity. I am the ever-present devil in your Heaven, the smudge upon the crown, the tear that shreds your silken robes.  
  
Sophia: It would seem to me you revel in such words.  
  
Bane: What can be done but revel, when real glory is so rarely seen?  
  
[The 7th of May, 1569, in the township of Hathaway]  
  
"This is all?" Heero glanced down at the single page of parchment, and then back to Wufei, who was digging hurriedly through an old chest, muttering to himself.  
  
"Yes!" Wufei's muffled voice barked indignantly. "That's //all//!" He straightened and glared pointedly at the impassive face of Heero Yuy.  
  
"It's only one page of script, Wufei," Heero remarked blandly, sliding his eyes to the scrawling on the paper.  
  
"I KNOW it's only one page, you toffee-nosed brat! Why do you think I'm so upset?" Wufei growled, throwing his arms into the air with furious abandon. He whirled, his hair flying and shirt flapping loudly, and began to dig through the chest again.  
  
"Toffee-nosed…?" Trowa repeated softly, opening his eyes and giving Heero a quietly amused expression from where he was reclining against the wall.  
  
Heero rolled his eyes skywards, a smirk tugging at his lips.  
  
"I SAW that, Yuy! Don't you make fun of me, this is a serious matter! Besides, //you// weren't the one with the looming shadow of eviction breathing down your neck all night." Wufei grumbled loudly, his head still buried in the mass of papers and cloth that were contained in the massive oaken trunk.  
  
Quatre quirked an eyebrow. "Wufei?" he mock-frowned, even as a grin struggled to dissolve his earnest façade. "What //are// you looking for?"  
  
Wufei straightened and, fisting a handful of papers angrily, twisting the delicate parchment in his palm, sent the offending trunk a withering glare. "The strong-box," he growled. "The one that I was keeping for…" his scowl deepened. "Damn! It's gone!!" He screamed angrily as flung the crumpled papers across the room, spinning to face the three actors.  
  
"Wufei," Quatre started forward, hands out in a familiar placating gesture, ruined slightly by the fact that his voice kept wavering somewhere between tenor and soprano. "I'm sure it's not //gone//. Maybe you moved it."  
  
"That's NOT going to work, Quatre. Not this time," Wufei growled low in his throat. "How can I have moved it when I haven't //touched// that trunk since I came to Hathaway? The lock hasn't been removed, I //know// it hasn't!" He muttered, almost to himself, as he began to pace, ink-stained hands clasped wrenchingly behind his back.  
  
"Is it that important?" Heero asked, not removing his eyes from the page he was scanning.  
  
"YES!!" Wufei roared, turning on Heero with the force of a hurricane. The blue-eyed actor didn't even flinch, although his hair was ruffled visibly as the outburst blew by. "Yes," Wufei repeated, whirling and pacing again. "More than ever… I //needed// that money…" sighing heavily, he collapsed into a nearby chair. "WE needed that money."  
  
"Look," Quatre began, placing a hand on the back of the chair.  
  
"NO!" Wufei shouted, and Quatre started. "No, no, no, no! Absolutely not, Quatre!" the playwright swiveled in the chair, fixing the slender blond with another angry glare.  
  
"Wufei, please… I don't mind at all - "  
  
"No," he stated firmly, facing out again, arms crossed across his chest. "I am NOT borrowing money from you again."  
  
"It's not a problem, you know. We can go to Iria's Manor now and – "  
  
"No. Not one franc."  
  
"Wufei…" Quatre pleaded, his voice cracking as he moved around to lean adorably on the arm of the chair.  
  
"No."  
  
  
  
As the troupe descended down the steps of one of the many Winner Manors, Wufei stuffed his hands in the pockets of his tattered coat and glowered irritably at the ground.  
  
"Are you happy now?" He grunted at the youngest son of the wealthy merchant family, who was looking far too smug for his tastes.  
  
"Yes. Very," Quatre replied, a sly smile sliding over his innocent, effeminate features.  
  
Wufei felt sick. "You're far too manipulative for your own good," he sighed and glared sideways at the other two actors, silent as always. "And YOU two didn't help much."  
  
"Didn't intend to," Trowa murmured in his quiet tone, turning his head to appraise a stall full of fruit as they entered the market square.  
  
"We're on his side," Heero added, voice heavy with sobriety.  
  
"Ingrates, all of you," Wufei muttered, eyes downcast, hoping the others couldn't see the red stain of embarrassment that had coloured his cheeks since they entered the Winner household. Wufei hated asking for money although he was sure Quatre's family didn't mind. They were, after all, the richest family in the country; with all 29 sisters carrying out the legacy of the father, the merchant family owned practically every trade route that the Queen protected, and quite possibly some she didn't. But still, he absolutely abhorred having to admit weakness of any kind, and constantly depending on the Winner's, he decided, was a very vulnerable kind of weakness. He used to half-believe that Quatre had joined his troupe, the Queen's Men, out of pity, even though he knew it wasn't true. Quatre had made it very clear that he was never one for profits, gains and gambles, and he had felt awful about his father's actions during that time of... unrest in the capital. However, whatever the real reasons were for Quatre's membership in the little band of actors, Wufei didn't care. There weren't there to ask questions, or to pry into sealed doors that most definitely contained delicate memories. They were there to forget, to succeed, to try their hands at relying on themselves, to rebuild the strength they had lost.  
  
Wufei sighed softly, trying desperately to conceal his misery in the collar of his threadbare coat. Needless to say, the rebuilding was going to take some time. With Treize constantly breathing down the back of his neck, the unrelenting factor that his money was eventually going to run out for good – which would most definitely lead to eviction or worse, and the fact that his play was at a veritable stand-still. And, of course, the new issue, Quatre could no longer play the lead role of Sophia. He sighed again.  
  
"I can hear you lamenting, Wufei," Heero muttered softly, eyes still trained ahead on the busy market crowd.  
  
"Shut your mouth, Yuy," Wufei snapped at his childhood friend. "Your snide remarks haven't been helping much."  
  
Heero turned to look at him, an intense, burning stare that bored holes directly into Wufei's temple. The playwright could feel it even when he looked deliberately away.  
  
"Stop looking at me like that, Heero," he growled and pushed through the chattering, colourful crowd of skirts, jackets, baskets, children and animals that was the market. "I'm not in the mood for your tough love right now," he scowled at a fat fishmonger who decided to wave a carp in his face.  
  
"Who said anything about love, Wufei?" Heero replied softly, falling into step beside the fuming, embarrassed playwright. "You're too concerned about your self-image to do what's right for The Queen's Men, and it's making me angry. This //is// what you wanted, isn't it?"  
  
Wufei growled and stuffed his hands farther into his pockets, trying to escape the noise and bustle that was the town centre and the glaring truth that was Heero Yuy. Glancing upwards through errant strands of raven hair, he spotted an alleyway. He ducked into the small, dark corridor without a moment's hesitation, relishing the sudden, almost eerie muffled noise that the darkened passageway created, only to have it come crashing down when he was followed by his blue-eyed companion.  
  
"Would you just let this be?" Wufei exclaimed in frustration, leaning heavily against the cool brick of the shaded wall, ducking his head and hiding his eyes in shadow.  
  
"No," Heero replied solemnly, walking to stand in front of the slouching Wufei – so the playwright could make out the chiseled profile of his face in the light that filtered in through the narrow opening of the alley.  
  
There was a thick pause, where all that was heard was the steady dripping of collected rainwater that perpetually echoes in alleyways and the muffled shouts and laughter from the crowd outside.  
  
"Why not?" Wufei finally asked, pinching his brows together.  
  
"Because you're stronger than you think," Heero responded, cramming his own hands into his pockets, still not looking directly at Wufei. "You overcame a harder obstacle than this one. You didn't die, you didn't rot in the eternal halls of self-pity, you - "  
  
"I got cast out of house and home!" Wufei shouted, crossing his arms violently against his chest.  
  
"That doesn't matter!" Heero suddenly lunged forward, eyes blazing blue lightening and caught Wufei by the arm, sending him crashing backwards into the wall. Heero pined the dark-haired man against the wet brick, an iron grip closing over Wufei's forearm and the other hand crushing his shoulder to the wall.  
  
"It doesn't matter," Heero repeated, his eyes were dangerously narrow, his voice throbbing with anger. "Wufei! You wanted this… you could have given up on yourself… but you didn't. Don't lose yourself now, you promised me." His voice grew lower. "I made you promise me you wouldn't…"  
  
Wufei blinked and snorted, tried to look away, but Heero caught his chin in a rough grasp. "I followed you, you idiot," the intense look didn't waver. "I'm doing this for //you//. Trowa's doing this for you; Quatre's doing this for you. You can't pretend like no one understands, Wufei, because we do. We know you're upset, but we know you can't give up… because if you do, everything comes crashing down."  
  
Wufei was silent for a long time, trying desperately to find some way out, but after his heart started to beat in regular time again, he felt himself close his eye and take a long shuddering breath. Heero released his arm and chin and stepped away a respectful distance. Rubbing his arm, feeling a little like an errant child, Wufei muttered an apology.  
  
Heero smirked.  
  
"Idiot - " Wufei began, his tone bordering on affectionate, but he was cut off as he heard a voice, clear and echoing come hurtling through the darkness of the alleyway. It was smooth and lyrical, a vibrant humming of laughter and smile forming words that were too far off to hear. It was decidedly male, but for some reason he had yet to uncover, it made his heart skitter; almost come to a thundering halt. Heero had obviously heard it too; his head was turned in the direction it had come from, down the swallowing blackness of the alley. The actor's eyes were every bit as intense as they had been a moment before, although his face betrayed a fraction of surprise. With slow, deliberate movements, he turned his head to lock eyes with Wufei, who was struggling to determine the reason the voice made him quiver.  
  
There was a peal of laughter, clearer then a bell-chime, and Wufei's world spun like a child's toy. Without even knowing why, he took off at a run, down the alley, towards the sound of the voice and the beautiful laughter. He was vaguely aware of his own splashing footsteps and the sound of Heero chasing after him, but every sound seemed to fall directly short of reaching his ears, except for the strange, echoing voice.  
  
Rounding a narrow, blind corner, he skidded to a spraying halt in a large puddle, eyes wide as he took in the scene before him. Sunlight filtered in through the opening between the tops of the buildings, illuminating the faces of the small troupe of street children gathered around a small crate, on which sat the source of the voice. A heart-stopping face shaped like a child's, still soft with youth, that seemed overwhelmed by a pair of large, bright blue-violet eyes – and trailing down the slender back, curled into a sensuous pool at his feet, was a long, shining, chestnut braid.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
//Juno: Ah, Sophia, I do revel in thy presence  
  
The lights of Aphrodite's caress illuminate  
  
Like so many moonlit arrows from Diana's grasp  
  
Does your face appear to me,  
  
Flesh as pale as the lightest part of dawn,  
  
Eyes like heavenly summons,  
  
Joyful is the day that brought forth your name!  
  
Sophia: I thank thee, kind sir.  
  
[aside] I am disgusted with thy face  
  
Hades' good will is as honest as you are beautiful.  
  
Would I Diana's arrows struck your heart  
  
Only such would be deserving as to the lying wretch thou art.  
  
And thou would fall heavy and cold,  
  
Flesh as pale as mine that thou hast want to caress.  
  
And summoned you would be,  
  
Into the very depths of Hell!  
  
'Cursed is the day that brought forth your name! //  
  
[On the evening of November 1st, 1566; The capital city of Lesfleurs]  
  
If she had the possessed the ability to scream, she would have. However, being drenched in the fuzzy, mind-warping ice that was fear and shock, she could do no more than stare wide-eyed. Her body was too overcome by terror and drink to move, let alone struggle against the strong hands that threw her roughly to the ground, that tore frantically at her clothes, her hair, her painted face. Her face was stinging with the bite of violence and silent tears, her eyes too clouded by disbelief to see the face hidden behind a dark mask. Her world was shadow, made darker by the rich red wine, and shattered into a thousands tiny shards of broken night by her drunken panic.  
  
She wished she could scream.  
  
She could feel the hatred radiating from the vicious hands against her suddenly bared skin, like searing flames against her sweat-drenched soul. The ground felt a great way away, she was swimming in a world of frightening darkness, where she could see nothing but the faint outline of a body over her and feel nothing but the excruciating pain of fear. She raised a frantic hand to the head above her own, almost an unconscious movement, and her numb fingers encountered velvet. A cruel mind sheathed in dark softness. She tightened her grasp on the mask and she tugged futilely. The hands, so hot and vicious and demanding, were stilled. Suddenly and abruptly, they stopped…  
  
And they were trembling.  
  
  
  
He froze, like a statue of ice; the onl [find replacement bit here!] s drenched with mud and sweat plastered against smudged skin. Pearls, so meticulously arranged within the dark strands fell like the crystal tears that spilled down her dirty, raw cheeks onto the ground, spread like a bed of sparkling daises. Her breathing was harsh, she gasped for air – as was he, now so afraid of his actions.  
  
//How did I…//  
  
//What did I…//  
  
He gasped sharply, blood rushing to his head, filling the coldness that had occupied his mind.  
  
//No…//  
  
He scrambled to his feet, his hands wringing behind his back, his expression lost and childish behind soft velvet.  
  
//No… no no no no no…//  
  
Stumbling like the true character he was, he staggered backwards, away from the actions, the consequences… away from the person he wanted to be, but had suddenly found he didn't have the strength to support. Disappearing into the trees of the grounds, his movements jerky and trembling, he wrung his hands frantically – the skin was beginning to become raw and red. Flinging his head wildly in all directions, trying to escape from the person that had done this, he scrambled through the trees, stinging branches no more than numb pricks against his burning skin.  
  
//No…//  
  
//What have I…//  
  
//What will I do…?//  
  
He stumbled out of the trees, onto a small path that rounded the rose garden, almost crashing into a low marble bench on which a small figure was huddled. Dressed in black and emerald, he stood out starkly against the white marble. His cloak was thrown carelessly over his shoulders, his eyes were closed in deep slumber, and his mask was slipping down his nose. Glancing hurriedly at the sleeping man, the stumbling, weeping, sniveling, scared, prince ripped his own mask off his head, the cool night air stinging his blood-shot eyes like cool daggers. With one hand twisting the velvet cap in a fist, the other reached out, trembling and tentative to the sleeping figure's head. The questing hand grasped the emerald mask and pulled it off and away from the dark head. With eyes still stinging and flesh still burning, the prince smoothed his dark velvet mask, a frantic, maniac grin stretching across his disturbed features. Then, with jerky, dazed movements, he flung his own mask at the sleeping victim, before stumbling backwards once again and running off into the night.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
//Bane: You would have me join with you? My lady, what filthy thoughts!  
  
Sophia: Wherefore, you twist my words, good sir.  
  
Your thoughts are of the plagued variety.  
  
Nothing less expected from the Plague himself.  
  
Now, what shall we take in?  
  
There is no greater sight than a cockfight  
  
Under the colourful streamers of winning bets.  
  
Or perhaps thou woudst educate my deprived palette  
  
With the finest brew that you know.  
  
6.1 Bane: Art thou sure thou were not a man at birth?//  
  
[The 7th of May, 1569, in the township of Hathaway]  
  
" – and scaling the wall like a stealthy spider, although a good- looking one, mind you, he mounted the balcony and pulled aside the drapery that guarded the Mademoiselle's luxurious prison. With soft feet he – "  
  
"Oh! Robin des Bois, he eez a peeping-tom, that he eez!" A delighted squeal sounded from the bright-eyed crowd.  
  
"Shush!" A tapered finger fell against a rosebud mouth that curved in a delicious smirk. "He's nothing of the sort… You're corrupting the young ones, Mademoiselle Julienne!" His lithe figure bent forward off the crate to grin accusingly at the speaker.  
  
A soft girlish giggle responded. "You may continue, Monsieur!" The accented voice smiled with feigned imperialism.  
  
"Why, merci Mademoiselle! AH-em!" The body straightened and once again assumed the pose – violet eyes wide and curious, hands drawn nervously up to his chest, arches forced as he tiptoed dramatically around the crate. "And our hero, the magnificent, the marvelous, the //merry//, the one and only Robin des Bois, drew open the curtain," the movement was mimicked, "and saw with widening eyes filled with love and peace… his beloved Mademoiselle Mariène." The pose changed, the storyteller turned his back to the dirty, rag-tag crowd, glanced coyly over one shoulder as he twirled his braid melodramatically. "She sat at her mirror, brushing her hair out. It fell in beautiful sun-kissed brown waves, down to the back of her knees. Her face was smooth and flawless; eyes sparkling like the jewels on the King's crown – as bright as the cloudless morning sky. She heard the curtain rustle and her hand that held the ivory brush stilled, she turned to look - "  
  
"Oh! Oh! Mademoiselle Mariène… she eez looking like you, Duo!"  
  
The storyteller looked momentarily shocked, and then burst into peals of bright laughter that echoed loudly in the alleyway, lighting up his face and the faces of his listeners. "Why, Julienne," he commented slyly, curling his feet underneath him and arranging his braid beside him on the crate, "Does that mean you think I'm pretty?"  
  
The blond girl, face smudged with ashes, nodded gleefully. "Mais oui, Duo, you eez as pretty as zee Queen!"  
  
Duo laughed again, his infectious grin hiding the blush that coloured his cheeks. "Julienne," he scolded the young girl, "If you keep interrupting me with flattery, I'll never be able to finish the story!"  
  
"Aw, Oo wants to 'ear about some girl, anyway?" Another voice piped up, a glaring boy with dark sandy hair. "Where eez zee fighting, Duo?"  
  
"Coming, coming," Duo wagged a finger. "You have to be patient, Michel. It's not right if we rush things, you know. A good story must have three things - "  
  
"We know, we know!" Julienne sighed melodramatically. "Romance," she recited, a devious grin spreading across her face.  
  
"Action!" Michel grinned, pumping the air with a dirty fist.  
  
"And humour!" Duo finished with a bright smile. "Have I told you that before, then?" Their little heads bobbed in exasperated agreement. "Oh well, never hurts to hear things more than once, I suppose," he sighed and looked thoughtful. "Now, where was I?" He coughed melodramatically, "The beautiful Mademoiselle Mariène turned towards the window, her - "  
  
"Oh!"  
  
"//Julienne!// Do you want to hear this story or not?" Duo's voice betrayed certain exasperation.  
  
"No, no. Eet eez not that…" her eyes were directed over Duo's shoulder, wide and apprehensive.  
  
"What?" Duo's head swiveled to look over his shoulder, and his own eyes widened in shock as he saw a young man with dark hair and even darker eyes, standing behind him in the alleyway. He was dressed in a gray coat, and despite the threadbare condition, it was obvious he was of a higher caste – his eyes held a dark haughtiness and fierce glow that Duo knew only the rich and powerful possessed. However, there was something strange: he was breathing harshly, his cheeks were red - almost feverish, and there was an odd illumination to his face, something that made Duo feel strangely uncomfortable. He narrowed his eyes apprehensively.  
  
"If you're looking for the whore-house, it's the next alley over, Monsieur," he nodded his head in suggestion.  
  
The other man blinked and looked startled. "No… I…"  
  
"Well, what is it, then?" Duo mocked lightly, hopping down from the crate, gracefully and discreetly placing himself in a position to protect the younger children. He had had one too many encounters with rich, cruel aristocrats who thought it sport to throw street-children into mud-puddles. "Are we bothering your //lordship?// If you'd prefer, we'll remove ourselves…" his voice, that had once echoed with laughter and character, had dropped to a dark venom, drenched in sarcasm. "Are we too filthy for your back alleyways?"  
  
The dark-haired man blinked again, and thick silence descended. Slowly, ever so slowly, the thick, jet-black eyebrows drew together in an intense squint, as though the man was pondering a heavy question. His eyes were glowing with… some kind of emotion, and his mouth began to twitch – making Duo prepare himself for an angry, condescending outburst. Instead, the man's face split into an expression of uncontained and unrestrained joy.  
  
"PERFECT!!" he shrieked with glee, his face gone deep scarlet with emotion. "Do it again!" He commanded feverishly, starting forward at Duo, his hands clenched in anticipatory excitement.  
  
Duo started backwards. Blinking, he forced a nervous grin. "Uh… pardon?" He chuckled uneasily.  
  
The man's hands were twitching excitedly, the fingers moving spastically as he rocked forward onto his toes, eyes wide and almost disbelieving. "Do it again!" A frightening, manic grin was plastered on his face. "The voices… that laugh… the tone! EXQUISITE!!!" The man's face was twisted in an odd expression; a mix between overflowing joy and amazement.  
  
"Michel…" Duo ventured in a low, incredulous voice, gesturing slightly towards the children, making sure not to remove his eyes from the raving lunatic that was still rambling loudly, hair flying, hands gesturing like a flustered hurricane. "I think you should take the others and head back to the church now…" Duo motioned more forcefully. The children didn't need to be told again, they took off at a slippery run, their tiny feet splashing loudly in the puddles, faces incredulous and slightly scared.  
  
"Heero!! Look!!" The strange man whirled to face the shadows of the alley, and then back to face Duo's suspicious expression. "Look!!" He exclaimed again, "It's perfect!! Absolutely perfect!!"  
  
Duo had had enough; he opened his mouth to retaliate, demand some answers, but from out the shadows stepped another figure, with a mop of dark brown hair and downcast eyes. Duo's limbs immediately tensed; who //were// these men? The new stranger's eyes glinted darkly from underneath shaggy bangs and deep shadows as he glanced at Duo with what could only be meticulous appraisal.  
  
//Heero… did he say?// Duo's thoughts murmured, //Where have I heard that name before?//  
  
"Hn. Not bad," the shadowed voice commented; the tone was smug and smirking.  
  
"*Not BAD?!*" The other man exclaimed in protest, "Heero, have you gone completely blind? It's… this is… Heero, this *is* Sophia!"  
  
Duo blinked.  
  
The other man cocked his head, eyes suddenly visible from behind hair and shadow; the stance suggested more judgment of Duo's figure. The stare stopped any of Duo's protests in his throat, like a thick gag. The eyes were searing suns of dark blue; they cut a wide swath through Duo's wits, removing all coherent thought from his mind.  
  
"If you say so," the smug voice murmured again.  
  
"HOW can you not see it?" The dark-haired one turned on his shadowed companion, and then whirled again to squint at Duo, who had effectively been frozen to the spot by shock and disbelief. "The face is superb, the eyes are *exactly* what I had in mind…"  
  
"Uh… Excuse me…" Duo ventured, feeling all too much like a bovine up for sale.  
  
"Hmm… Well, the voice *is* a little deep, but I can work with that," the man continued, completely oblivious, "Besides, listen to the smoothness… and what expression! Could it be *any* better?"  
  
"Well, you *could* tell me what, in the name of the God-bless'd Queen, you two are talking about!" Duo burst out, his face livid with indignancy.  
  
The dark-haired man started, and looked at Duo as though he had just realized that the storyteller could talk back. The stranger's face calmed almost immediately, the manic grin and frantic gesturing was replaced with a stern, terse grimace and dark, glimmering eyes that seemed to spark with a tense fire.  
  
"What?" The stranger glanced almost disdainfully at Duo, all praise and obsession evaporated, he looked as though he was *angry* at Duo for interrupting his thoughts.  
  
"Who *are* you two, and what in the Queen's name are you *doing*?" Duo exclaimed.  
  
The man in the gray, tattered coat, with his dark hair falling in his eyes, ink-stains clearly visible on his shirt and hands, drew himself up, his eyes glaring haughtily as though Duo had uttered a damaging insult.  
  
"I…" he grimaced arrogantly, "am Chang Wufei."  
  
"Good for you," Duo sneered. "I'm sure you're very proud of that. Now what does that have to do with me?"  
  
"What's your name?" The man asked; face still slightly tinged with red from his earlier outburst.  
  
"Why should I even consider telling you?" Duo replied hotly. He suddenly felt a very strong dislike for the man that had called himself Chang Wufei; something about the forced strength and floundering arrogance offended him more than the usual aristocrats did.  
  
"Because I'm offering you a job."  
  
Duo blinked again, quite taken by surprise. "A what?" He asked.  
  
"A job," the young man replied.  
  
"A what?" he repeated.  
  
"A job."  
  
"What?"  
  
The young man, Wufei, sighed angrily, his face contorted in exasperation. "A job. You do something for me, and I give you money."  
  
Duo snorted. "Listen, I stopped being a thief-for-hire a *long* time ago. And don't even *consider* sexual favours, I would *never* stoop that low, despite the fact that some of my best friends of whores, I really don't think they're bad people, it's just that I think they're not trying. You get mixed up in all sorts of problems when you get involved in that business, and what good would it do the kids if I had a - "  
  
"I want you to act."  
  
" – giant, greasy threat of… What?" Duo stumbled over his words, blinking rapidly as the comfort of easy one-sided conversation slid away. "You want me to what?"  
  
"Act," Wufei repeated, his eyes clearly displayed the fact that he was struggling not to explode with frustration.  
  
"As in, perform plays?" Duo's eyes widened; this was something new. He suddenly developed a very strong interest in the passionate young man and his dark, silent friend.  
  
"Exactly that," Wufei replied; his eyes began to take on a strange sheen. "I am a playwright, and owner of the Queen's Men. We perform out of the Globe Theatre, which I bought and redesigned with my own two hands. We - "  
  
"The what theatre?"  
  
Wufei gritted his teeth. "The *Globe* Theatre."  
  
"Hé, never heard of it. I know the Rose, but not the - "  
  
Suddenly, a growl erupted from Wufei's throat as he lunged forward and grabbed Duo's arm. The storyteller gave a startled yelp as he was dragged roughly out of the alleyway and into the bright sunlight of the street. The playwright strode irately through the crowded market and up a narrow flight of stairs that led to a small wooden door in the side of small building, stained with dirty rainwater.  
  
"Mon-monsieur… I thought you said you weren't looking for a whore-house," Duo stuttered confusedly as Wufei mounted the steps, dragging him along.  
  
"I don't want to go *inside*," Wufei replied, spinning around to face the puzzled and slightly frightened storyteller. "Look!" He said, pointing across the low roofs and rafters of the town.  
  
Duo followed the line of his finger, eyes searching out over the skyline of chimneys and church steeples, until his vision fell upon the building to which Wufei was pointing. The building itself was small, merely a stout, thick-based tower, but the courtyard that was slightly visible from their angle was immense, lined on each side by balcony chambers and raised seats. The paint was fresh, the small windows were leaded with frosty glass. Duo decided he liked the way it looked.  
  
"That…"  
  
"*That's* the Globe," Wufei finished proudly. "The home of the Queen's Men."  
  
"Joli…" Duo's mouth curled up in a small grin. "And you want me to join?"  
  
"I do."  
  
"Why him?" The second voice sounded from below the stairs, startling Duo as the other man with dark blue eyes beat him to his own question.  
  
"Yuy, I didn't hire you to question me."  
  
"You never hired me, Wufei."  
  
"Once again, you're not helping much, Heero."  
  
"Heero? Heero Yuy?" Duo blundered in, suspicions and questions forgotten, at least for the moment.  
  
The brown-haired man turned and fixed Duo with a stare that froze his insides like a blizzard had swept through his mind. "And what of it?" He asked in a voice that crackled with challenge.  
  
"Duke Yuy's eldest son?" Duo asked again. "What in the devil's name are you doing in Hathaway? Weren't you promised to the Queen?" His eyes narrowed in suspicion and curiosity.  
  
The other man only responded with a glare of his own. "I'd advise you to keep your nose out of business that doesn't concern you."  
  
"Hmpf…" Duo muttered, eyes shuttering closed, nose turned up slightly in the air. He once again shifted opinions; thinking perhaps working for the playwright wouldn't be such an intelligent idea, when the small wooden door swung open, nearly knocking Wufei off the narrow stairwell.  
  
"Oh, I beg your… ah… Wufei?" A voice drawled as from out the shadows stepped a tall blond, his tunic was a rich dark blue, his boots were thick polished leather, his head was crowned by a sparklingly silver half-mask, the nose hooked like a bird of prey, the shaped eyes slanted like almonds. Beneath the metal of the mask, steel-blue eyes twinkled mockingly as the blond noticed the playwright.  
  
"Finally… taking that advice I gave you, Wufei?" The tall man asked, nodding towards the door as he shut it delicately. He voice was a knife of sarcasm, edged with the steel of unquenchable self-confidence. "You know, you can't dwell on Meiran forever."  
  
Duo's eyes narrowed in disgust, even as Wufei's mouth tightened in a grim line.  
  
"I happen to find pleasure in other endeavors besides torturing and cheating young women, Zechs," the playwright growled deep in his throat.  
  
"Ah, yes… your little stories. Well, I *do* hope that goes well for you, Wufei – what with the money problems… and now, Winner's out of the running. Oh well, I suppose the little giblet had to grow up sometime. C'est la vie, non, mon cher?" He asked, mocking laughter edging his voice as he patted Wufei's cheek; his eyes, roving towards the glaring figure of Duo, widened and then glinted in amusement.  
  
"And speaking of dears, if it isn't the 'storyboy'..." he chuckled, one gloved hand snaking out smoothly to grasp Duo's chin in slender fingers. Duo immediately wrenched his face out of the satiny hold, his eyes flashing malevolently. Zechs grinned.  
  
"Still as feisty as ever, mon petit voleur?"[1] Laughing lightly, he moved on before turning back to glance at Duo with steely mocking eyes, "Oh, if you happen to see Rachelle anytime soon, tell her I thoroughly enjoyed my last visit – despite the fact she decided to pass out before I was done. Good boy," he snapped his gloves smartly and trotted lightly down the rest of the steps. Moving to push into the crowd, he stopped as his eyes caught the stern, glaring visage of the other man, Heero.  
  
"Monsieur," he said, inclining his head lightly, touching a gloved finger to his golden brow. "I hope the day finds you well."  
  
Heero merely glared, his eyes dark and searing as his face stayed immobile. Zechs chuckled, although the sound was slightly more respectful as he moved away, long golden hair swishing across the deep blue of his tunic.  
  
The three young men stood of the steps, their eyes and bodies bristling with anger, the silence was terse and angry until Duo turned to fix Wufei with a confident, defying grin.  
  
"Wufei, was it?" His eyes were sparking dangerously. "Why don't you tell me more about this job?"  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
[1] My little thief... ^-^;;;  
  
Well, there's the Duo. ^-^ My work here is done. 


	5. Part 5

1 Author: Imo-chan  
  
Title: With Quill in Hand – pt 5  
  
2 Genre: AU. Shakespeare. ^_^  
  
3 Disclaimers: All not mine. Except for the excerpts from the play at the beginning. Those are Wufei's. And no one would want them, anyway. ^-^'''  
  
4 Summary: A story about the G-boys as a troupe of Shakespearian-type actors struggling with treachery, guilt, and puberty. ^.^ Quatre's voice breaks and in his place, Duo-the-street-punk is cast across from Heero in the lead female role, while Wufei has to deal with the ever-present threat of eviction and some demons from his past.  
  
5  
  
Warnings: AU - set in a made-up world very similar to Great Britian during the Renaissance, but not exactly (just cause I don't wanna be historically correct!) Yaoi in later parts, 1x2, 4x?. Angst, Evil Zechs, SUPER-evil Treize, non-graphic rape. A bit of humor.. come on, Wufei's a playwright and Heero's an actor.. *cough* that's gotta be good for a few laughs. Plus, Crazy!Dorothy. Yay!!  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
//Sophia: A drop of adder's speak in his wine  
  
Perhaps he will forget to hold me down tonight.  
  
A bane for a Bane,  
  
Is that not how it goes, father mine?//  
  
[On the evening of November 1st, 1566; The capital city of Lesfleurs]  
  
Duke Yuy, his wife, and his eldest and only son, Heero, entered the hall through the massive, ornate glass doors – flanked by royal guards and decked with bright autumn-coloured blooms – to be greeted with the cornucopia of silk, wine and lace that was the Royal Hallow's Eve Ball. Heero felt his mother's demeanor relax with a contented, lady-like sigh. This was the world in which she belonged - the swirl of dancing and costumes, the delicate world of lace and golden goblets. He didn't mind it so much – in moderation – but the atmosphere became quite stifling at times, and Heero had begun to develop some dislike towards some many of the people attending. And, as he was a very intelligent young man, he knew there were other reasons that his parents were so excited to be attending the ball. Heero was the eldest and only child, his parents getting older, and there were many rich families with equally rich daughters.  
  
While his parents might have seen his betrothal as the most imperative matter to attend to, Heero had decided that he really wanted nothing to do with it, and would stay as far away from the arrangements as possible. Scanning the crowd of laughing, dancing nobles, he noticed a pretty, young lady in white silk slip from behind a dark corridor and sweep across the dance floor, towards them. Her hair was dark, and rather short, twisted delicately into a mass of tendrils, set with pearls, with a diamond and swan-feather mask set neatly across her eyes. Heero recognized her immediately – she had been one of the first noble children to make his acquaintance in the royal nursery and the playing grounds. With her beautiful features, hunting skills beyond even some of the best men, and half solemn, half blissful, all open eyes, she had always been a source of admiration for Heero.  
  
"My Lord Yuy! Wonderful to see you again, it's been such a long summer! And Heero… my Youngling Lord," Lucrezia laughed delicately, as Heero took her hand and kissed it softly.  
  
"You've grown since I saw you last!" She added, turning her dark blue eyes to Heero's mother with a smile full of womanly pride, and Heero fought a stalwart battle to keep the blush from his cheeks. Lucrezia Noin was known to instill those kind of feelings in men of all ages, even those who interests lay decidedly //elsewhere//.  
  
Heero nodded his polite goodbyes to his parents, who went to give their salutations to the young queen (much to his dismay – as far as he was concerned, the less contact they had with her, the better), and slipped his own mask over his face – the room suddenly and sharply diminished into two almond-shaped spy holes of festivity. He could make out faces he knew, body language he recognized, but none sparked any interest in beginning conversation, until he caught a glimpse of a dark head; hair pulled tightly back into a tail with a emerald string. The young man with the raven hair was turned away, talking quietly with a balding man of a scholarly descent, so he didn't see Heero as he slipped up quietly behind him and gave a decisive tug on his ponytail as the older man turned away.  
  
"Heero," the dark haired boy announced acerbically as he turned, after swatting his friend's hand away and failing to produce the yelp Heero had intended to create. "You have absolutely no manners."  
  
Heero shrugged and reached for a goblet of wine offered on a servant's platter. "You were acting too serious," he smirked, "I thought to loosen your features a bit."  
  
"The only thing you loosened," Wufei retorted sharply, "was my mask. I was having a serious conversation."  
  
"Obviously. You looked almost constipated," Heero took a brief sip at his wine.  
  
Wufei's face, partially visible beneath the mask, went bright scarlet. "I discussing the significance of the philosophical and literal meanings of the portents put forth by Michèl de NotreDame in Siècles with one Master Oji Chen!" he sputtered. "Master O is one of the foremost - "  
  
" – literary minds of our time," Heero finished in unison with his fuming friend.  
  
"Well, yes!" Wufei's insisted hotly.  
  
"You say that about everyone."  
  
"Not... //everyone//," Wufei conceded delicately, waving his wine glass absently. "That... //Barton// can't write worth a copper pence."  
  
"Really." Heero eyes went half-mast with boredom, though his mouth refused to relinquish that minute smirk as he gazed stonily into his cup.  
  
"Of course! You *know* how I feel about his writings. His scenes are weak, his plots lack logical thought, his characters are emotionless... boring. And his dialogue is *completely* and *utterly* flat – something that is simply *inexcusable* for a playwright. His works *are* dialogue, but he lacks poetry, the words refuse to flow; you read them aloud and they trip over the tongue..."  
  
"Awful." Heero rolled his eyes into his goblet before taking a lengthy swig.  
  
Wufei continued on, unconcerned, his gestures becoming wilder. "It's a complete mystery to me how the public of Hathaway, much less anyone in Lesfleurs can praise that garbage he produces. Obviously, anyone with *any* appreciation for the literary arts would know his plays are utter trash."  
  
"Obviously." Heero took another long sip of his wine, discovered it was empty and reached for another.  
  
"And *besides* that, he's so *secluded*! A writer must make *some* effort to connect with the people he will be communicating too. Barton hasn't moved from Hathaway in over five years, I've been told, and he won't reply to any communication from the public. Simply turns down letters, rejects polite requests for aid in writing techniques, turns away messeng - " Wufei stopped abruptly as he watched Heero tip his goblet straight to the ceiling, setting it down on the nearby tray with a thunk, before snatching another full cup. "Heero, are you *listening* to me?"  
  
"Mm," Heero grunted over the edge of his glass, not raising his eyes.  
  
Wufei crossed his arms over his chest and glared slightly softened daggers at his friend through the eye-holes of his mask. "Am I *boring* you?" Wufei mocked quietly, his mouth mimicking Heero's earlier smirk.  
  
"Never," Heero murmured, draining his present goblet to the last drop.  
  
"Then why are you trying to drink yourself stupid?" Wufei grinned knowingly, shaking his head in amusement, his rant forgotten.  
  
Heero blinked into the empty cup. "Not stupid," he corrected softly. "Just apathetic."  
  
"Why are you trying to drink yourself... apathetic?"  
  
"So I don't care."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"About the fact that they're trying to marry me off."  
  
"WHAT?!"  
  
"Mm." Heero took a long, *long* sip at a new goblet of wine.  
  
"You?"  
  
"Mm."  
  
"To *who*?"  
  
"Mm," Heero's shoulders moved sluggishly in a half-hearted shrug before his took another drink. "They're in negotiations with the royal family."  
  
"The QUEEN?!?" Wufei had to struggle to keep his voice from squeaking.  
  
"Would appear so," Heero conceded, finally raising his eyes from the wine to glance fleetingly at his friend, who had suddenly gone very red.  
  
"But... but you don't even *like* wom - "  
  
"I know," Heero interrupted briskly before handing Wufei a full goblet of his own. "Here."  
  
"That… suddenly seems like a very good idea," Wufei choked, taking a small, experimental drink.  
  
"Hm. S'what I thought. Come for a walk in the gardens?"  
  
"Of course," Wufei agreed, his voice still shaky, "too many people in here anyways."  
  
As they made their way through the increasingly 'joyful' and colourful crowd, threading through skirts, tunics, feathers and jewels, towards the large glass doors that led into the garden, Heero felt Wufei stop beside him and turned to look at his friend, who was staring fixedly at a corner of the room. Following his line of vision, Heero noticed the Lady Meiran conversing with a crowd of noble females. Looking like a plum- violet flower, with velvet skirt, delicate, raven-feather mask and stained rose blossoms in her hair, she turned and Heero saw her smile blindingly as she caught Wufei's eye. He sighed inwardly, and turned away, preparing to walk through the gardens alone when a flash of movement struck the corner of his vision.  
  
Wufei stumbled forward as someone crashed heavily into his back, his goblet splattering wine over the floor and a few tunics as Heero snatched at his arm to keep him from falling.  
  
"Oh, Wufei... I'm sorry. Didn't see you there."  
  
Heero could almost hear the grinding noise as Wufei clenched his teeth before turning to face the speaker.  
  
"Pas de problème, Treize," he ground out slowly as he wiped disdainfully at the front of his tunic, raising his eyes to meet the glowing smirk of the Kushrenada noble disguised behind a soft gold mask shaped like a lion's head.  
  
"I sincerely apologize," Treize bowed his head slightly; "I completely lose my balance when I drink. Ah, speaking of which; it was entirely my fault... let me get you a new cup." And he reached out a gloved hand to grasp the stem of Wufei's goblet.  
  
"Th-that's all right," Wufei squinted, not disguising his suspicion. And Heero had his own, as he watched Treize insist again, and then melt through the crowd to get a new cup of wine. Treize was never kind to Wufei, and likewise, Wufei tried hard to be a hostile as possible toward the Kushrenada family.  
  
"Milord, are you all right?" a voice asked from behind them, and Heero watched Wufei's face stain red again before he turned.  
  
"Fine, my lady, fine." Wufei turned and his adoration could not be disguised as he began conversation with Meiran.  
  
"Reading all those books has made you slow on your feet, Milord Wufei. If it hadn't been for Milord Yuy, you would have fallen flat on your face. Quite embarrassing. And not very scholarly, either."  
  
Wufei's frown was everything but harsh. "Books do *not* make one slow on one's feet, my lady. Lack of exercise does. However, no problem there, for even just now, Heero and I were about to take a walk in the gardens. Would you like to join us?"  
  
Meiran's jewel eyes twinkled delightedly and her mouth opened to answer when Treize Kushrenada appeared through the crowd again, slyly and graciously planted himself between Meiran and Wufei as he handed the latter the cup of wine.  
  
"Ah… merci," Wufei said quickly, quite angry at the well-timed interruption.  
  
"Think nothing of it Wufei, it was entirely my fault," Treize commented smoothly, just as the orchestra began a slow strings piece. "Ah! A waltz..." Treize held up a hand and turned, grinning, to Meiran. "A dance, my lady?" He asked, voice as silky as water.  
  
"I must not refuse," said Meiran - not kindly, not coldly, but somewhere very in-between - as she took his arm and slipped back into the dancing crowd, without a backward glance at Wufei.  
  
The two of them, Heero and Wufei, stood very still in the middle of the ballroom, completely silent and motionless, until Wufei heaved a deep sigh and swigged his entire glass of wine in one gulp before turning to stalk out the doors. They had not gotten much farther than before, however, when someone grabbed delicately at Heero's arm and he turned to see Noin smiling at him.  
  
"Please, Heero," she tilted her head, "Dance with me? And then you must have a minuet with the Queen," she leaned close and placed her gloved hand on her shoulder. "It is her favourite," she whispered, almost conspiratorially, before tugging gently on Heero's hand.  
  
Heero turned to look at Wufei, who snorted. "What're you looking at me for? Go. I'll be in the garden."  
  
Heero nodded and led Noin back through the glass doors and into the gaily bright and dusk-streaked ballroom, and as he pulled her into the soft sway of the waltz, he caught one last glimpse of Wufei, walking off into the dark, alone.  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
Pater: Ah, here she steps!  
  
Sophia, my daughter!  
  
[The 7th of May, 1569, in the township of Hathaway]  
  
As they approached the entrance to the Globe, Wufei leading the way, the young storyteller trotting alongside, and Heero scowling, uncertain, as he walked a good distance away from both, Quatre burst from the closed doors in a whirlwind of worry, Trowa standing (reserved as always) in the doorway.  
  
"Wufei!! Where did you go to? Trowa and I were walking, and then you and Heero weren't there anymore! " He shot a quick, almost angry, glance at Heero, as if it was //his// fault for letting Wufei wander off on his own. "We thought maybe you had been run over by a horse, or heckled, or - "  
  
"Quatre!" Wufei barked, and the blond snapped his mouth shut.  
  
"Sorry," he apologized quietly. "I... I keep forgetting."  
  
Wufei sighed, and Heero noted the look of complete confusion and humour on the new storyteller's face, his eyes so bright and alive, Heero had to blink a few times to tear his own gaze away.  
  
"Here, come inside," Wufei gestured to them all. "I have to find a new place to store our reserves." he patted his pocket almost affectionately, hearing the coins jingle. They all followed the playwright inside and into the courtyard before Quatre noticed the young street boy obediently following Wufei a few steps rearward.  
  
"Oh?" he voiced loudly, "Who're you?"  
  
The boy smiled and was about to open his mouth to answer when Wufei cut in absently, climbing up to the stage. "This is our new Sophia! He hates Treize almost as much as I do," he added, while rummaging through a trunk of props, as though that was the most pleasant personal attribute one could have.  
  
Quatre beamed. "That's wonderful!" he exclaimed, his voice shooting up three octaves before settling into normal register. "About, Sophia, I mean... not so much about Treize... but that's… oh, not important! I'm Quatre Winner!" he bounded forward and extended his hand to the storyteller, who grasped it with that blinding smile. "And you are?" Quatre asked.  
  
"Well, he's..." Wufei began before the other could reply for himself, and then paused and straightened, holding a brightly feathered scarlet hat in his hands. "He's… uh..."  
  
The storyteller laughed brightly, and Heero felt his heart shoot straight up into his throat. "Duo Maxwell," he grinned. "I tell stories in the alley behind Poisson and Choulet every afternoon at 4 o'clock. Admission's free, although I think you'd be a bit older than the audience I usually entertain," he squinted and winked at Quatre.  
  
Quatre's face lit up almost as bright as Wufei's had at the sound of the voice. "So, you act?"  
  
"In a way, I suppose," Duo shrugged. "But I'd do this just to get back at Treize and Zechs, never mind the pay."  
  
"Another unresolved grudge?" Quatre asked, almost teasingly, as he shot a look of amusement at Wufei, whose head was once again buried in the prop trunk.  
  
Duo Maxwell shrugged, returning Quatre's grin. "It seems everyone in Hathaway's been cheated by them at some point over the last couple of years or so. I suppose the details aren't important..." he trailed off, making it clear that it probably wouldn't have been welcome to pry further. "So, this is the troupe, then? The Queen's Men…?"  
  
Quatre nodded brightly. "Oui! Wufei and I came from Lesfleurs five years ago, with Heero. You met Heero?" he asked, gesturing.  
  
Heero deepened his glare for effect, but the storyteller didn't turn around; he only emitted a short snort of agreement. "We were //introduced.//"  
  
Quatre shot a questioning glance over Duo's shoulder but Heero dismissed it by closing his eyes. "Ah… well…" Quatre's voice wavered uncomfortably. "Right. Well, we came from Lesfleurs after – "  
  
Wufei coughed loudly.  
  
" – uh… well, we came from Lesfleurs and Wufei started writing with Trowa Barton as part of his troupe – sort of an assistant, I suppose," Quatre turned and gestured lightly to the tall man with a dark green tunic leaning against the pillar of the stage.  
  
Duo inhaled loudly. "Zut! Trowa //Barton//?" He asked amazedly. "//You're// part of the Queen's Men? I thought you were in Italiana studying latin! I mean, that's what //I// thought - people kept saying you left Hathaway after Treize set up the Rose theatre across the river. After the Chamberlain's Troupe dissolved, there were all these rumours flying around – some said he //killed// you... 'course most didn't believe that... but no one's seen you do anything since you did //Arthur Pendragon// - almost four years ago now, I guess... I loved that, by the way... one of my favourites – "  
  
"Thank you," Trowa nodded modestly, his voice drowned out by Duo's flood of words.  
  
" – but I had //no// idea you were still here! Are you writing this one?"  
  
"No," Trowa said gently. "After Monsieur Wufei did an excellent job on the Pendragon climax, I thought it best to perform one of his own."  
  
Duo turned, incredulous, to Wufei, who had emerged from the trunk with a embroidered corset hanging precariously from his head as he emptied the golden coins into a small, wooden box. "//You// wrote part of //Pendragon//?!"  
  
"What?" Wufei looked up distracted, and the corset fell heavily over one eye. With a loud snort of anger he brushed it out of his face, wherein the whalebone hooked onto the button sleeve of his overcoat. "Ah... yes," he muttered as he tried to disengage his coat from the undergarment.  
  
Heero could see the profile of Duo's face light up with an absolutely blinding display of respect and admiration – which was rather strange, as the playwright, in an effort to remove the corset from his overcoat, had ended up in a fairly compromising tangle with a rather delicate piece of women's wear. Why Wufei even possessed a corset to put in the prop trunk was a complete mystery. Probably for the women's roles – although he had never seen Quatre wear one – and Heero had to admit, it would be //interesting// to see whether Wufei could actually succeed in getting the newest addition to the Queen's Men to //wear// one.  
  
//THAT// would be quite the sight, Heero decided, as a rather delicious picture materialized in his mind.  
  
"Heero?"  
  
"…" A slow smirk stole across his face.  
  
"Heero!"  
  
"What?" He scowled, pulled roughly from his reverie, just in time to catch the corset that came flying at him from the direction of the stage. Apparently Wufei had managed to extract himself.  
  
"Ah, awake, Yuy?" his friend chuckled knowingly. "I need you to go upstairs and get a copy of the script for him," he pointed at Duo, who had climbed up onto the stage with Quatre and was presently rummaging through costumes. "Then we can put him through the plot details – perhaps practice a few scenes."  
  
"…right." Heero agreed somewhat distractedly, before scowling darkly at the look of amusement his friend gave him. He had been feeling somewhat out of sorts ever since Wufei had run off down that alleyway. He had heard the voice too, that sparklingly bright laugh and seen those eyes... they alone were enough to kill a man for.  
  
He took one last look at the stage before exiting through the back doorway – in time to see Quatre pull out the garment that Duo Maxwell was to wear as Sophia. Tearing his gaze away before his reaction would have been impossible to disguise, he sighed angrily, and wondered if Wufei was beginning to take advantage of his *preferences* on purpose.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
annnnnd... contact! ^-^ 


	6. Part 6

1 Author: Imo-chan  
  
Title: With Quill in Hand – pt 6  
  
2 Genre: AU. Shakespeare. ^_^  
  
3 Disclaimers: All not mine. Except for the excerpts from the play at the beginning. Those are Wufei's. And no one would want them, anyway. ^-^'''  
  
4 Summary: A story about the G-boys as a troupe of Shakespearian-type actors struggling with treachery, guilt, and puberty. ^.^ Quatre's voice breaks and in his place, Duo-the-street-punk is cast across from Heero in the lead female role, while Wufei has to deal with the ever-present threat of eviction and some demons from his past.  
  
5  
  
Warnings: AU - set in a made-up world very similar to Great Britian during the Renaissance, but not exactly (just cause I don't wanna be historically correct!) Yaoi in later parts, 1x2, 4x?. Angst, Evil Zechs, SUPER-evil Treize, non-graphic rape. A bit of humor.. come on, Wufei's a playwright and Heero's an actor.. *cough* that's gotta be good for a few laughs. Plus, Crazy!Dorothy. Yay!!  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
// Sophia: Father! Good Noon for  
  
I am afraid I overslept the morn.  
  
Pater: And well you did  
  
to do so, daughter for wouldst you know,  
  
this very morn, as thee slept  
  
we hadst found a rodent in thy bed?  
  
- and disposed of it rightforth.  
  
Sophia: A rodent?  
  
Pater: Aye, a twitchy little thing  
  
with arms all entwined about thee,  
  
we shall have to purge the bedsheets.  
  
Sophia: Father, this is a joke,  
  
I fear –  
  
Pater: Ah, fear *not*! Daughter!  
  
The Bane is gone!  
  
Sohpia: Lies! You lie!  
  
Befouled and grabbing singe,  
  
you lie! //  
  
[On the evening of November 1st, 1566; The capital city of Lesfleurs]  
  
There was complete silence. A thick split-second of quiet and held-breath before the trap sprung shut and the ballroom erupted in a flurry of confusion – screams and shouts and huddled groups moving in waves of silk- sparkling bodies, with the collapsed Lady Noin in the middle of it. The nobles immediately, reflexively, crowded away from the trembling woman; pressing themselves up against the glass windows of the room. The Noins, Lucrezia's father and brother, lunged forward with a cry, with the Queen and the royal guard not far behind.  
  
Heero fought deftly through the waves of moving bodies to just miss the cracked words that emerged from the lady's lips. He did, however, catch the repercussions of those words.  
  
The tight little ring of bodies around Lucrezia moved in a simultaneous explosion of command. "Quickly! Search the grounds!! A man with an eagle's mask!! Go!!" The captain of the guard, in the brilliant blue and white of the capital, drew his sword with a screech of metal and led his soldiers into the yard, followed by the guards of the royal houses – Winner, Noventa, Vingte, Yuy, Kushrenada.  
  
Heero felt the nobles creep tentatively closer, and watched the Queen rise with blazing eyes as the Lady was escorted away by her father.  
  
"No one is to leave," she commanded loudly, her voice as firm and commanding as the captain's. "You will all remain here until we are confident that we have caught the one responsible." With a slightly gentler gesture, she turned and motioned her ladies and the Noin men to take Lucrezia to a more comfortable room.  
  
The crowd pushed and swayed and milled uncomfortably, and Heero caught an opening enough in the rustling skirts to find a place at the Queen's side.  
  
"Ah! Lord Yuy," she looked very relieved to see him. "Have you seen His Grace, Kushrenada?" She asked, quite quietly, not taking her eyes of his face.  
  
"Yes," Heero nodded shortly, once, and jerked his head to a direction behind her shoulder where the noble was standing.  
  
"Oh. Has he been here all night? Have you seen him leave?"  
  
Heero paused, and narrowed his eyes. "Your majesty thinks - "  
  
"It should not matter to you what I think!" she hissed sharply. Her eyes warned him. "It should not be said! Tell me whether or not you have seen him leave."  
  
"I have not seen him leave," Heero said shortly. "He was dancing with the Empress."  
  
Her eyes still had that diamond-angry sheen to them as she looked at him intently, her mouth drawn in a tight line. Then, with a deep exhalation, they flickered to the side in almost a look of annoyance.  
  
"If it had been him..." she murmured, not raising her eyes.  
  
Heero chose to stay quiet this time.  
  
The Queen laughed a quiet, sudden, nervous laugh. "You were right to assume, Lord Yuy. //Our majesty// thinks it... Dieu... if it //had// been him, it would have made things so much easier."  
  
"Your majesty was correct," Heero murmured, "this should not be said here."  
  
"Not here, perhaps. Not now..." the Queen nodded, eyes turned fully to the garden. "But the day will come when I will need to."  
  
"That is not certain," Heero muttered.  
  
"Oh, it is. I have eyes, my Lord Yuy. And although I am a woman, I can still see the great chasm in the church. And the way it extends even to beyond the country. Dorothy, Queen of Scots – you know. They want the throne again, for their own. They think Catholicism has no place in England. And yet we worship the same God!" She paused, gathering her composure again. "Truly, if I could make peace I would make the country worship Allah and be pagan!" That nervous laugh came again. "I do not know whether this was intended to be such an attack..."  
  
"The Noins..."  
  
"They are Protestant."  
  
"Perhaps, then."  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
There was an uncomfortable pause. The chatter in the hall was as dim and low as the lights and the glow of the moon in the hazy orange sky.  
  
"Then your majesty must be careful," Heero said.  
  
"I am always careful, Lord Yuy," she turned, and the look she fixed him with was very, very different from anything else he had seen from her. "But perhaps... //two//... at the head of the state, being just as careful as I... would be better...?"  
  
Heero blinked, and then decided that responding would not be particularly wise.  
  
"You know that... our families have been - "  
  
"MAJESTY!! Clear the way!! Majesty, we have found him!!" A great cry rose from hidden doors, and the crowd parted to let the royal guards through – their blue tunics glowing, halberds and spears held high; the captain led the way, and behind him were two guards carrying a slumped form between them.  
  
"Your majesty!" Heero stepped back into the crowd as the captain knelt low at the Queen's feet before standing and gesturing behind him. "We found him, sleeping off his lust, near the garden fountain. This was still with him." And he threw down a crushed mask of silver velvet before the Queen, the sharp curve of an eagle's beak was visible.  
  
The Queen swept past the captain and stopped in front of the two guards and the captive, whose head was still bowed forward, he was obviously still unconscious. Heero noticed, with a dark, twisting nausea, that the hair – long and dark and the costume – a foreboding emerald green, looked far too familiar.  
  
//No... //  
  
"Let me see him," the Queen commanded, and as the guards jerked Wufei's head back by the loosened hair to display his face, a gasp rippled through the hall, and a long wail of despair echoed off the walls.  
  
Where it came from, Heero never knew, for in the pandemonium that erupted next, he lost sight of his best friend as he was carted off to the Tower.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
[November 6th, 1566; The capital city of Lesfleurs]  
  
The air was dense and suffocating, the approaching autumn storm made it cloying and almost unbearable. It was a freakish heat: a disturbingly late second summer that sprang like a hidden cat from the relatively cool weeks that had followed. Most – including Heero's parents – were sprawled in the covered courtyard in an attempt to breathe more easily. They fanned themselves with large silk fans brought from Fu-Chin-So, while elderly men in the large black robes of the justice strode back and forth along the hall, muttering quietly to each other with secretive, worried airs.  
  
The Noins, and the entourage from Deutschland that had accompanied them to Frençia, were nowhere to be seen. Neither was the company from Southern Fu- Chin-So.  
  
Heero had grown annoyed at the cloying tension in the air almost immediately, and had retreated silently back into the main halls of the castle, where he found himself wandering the upper floors. He had gravitated there almost unconsciously – he was feeling quite pensive as of late, the ordeal with Wufei and the rape of Lady Lucrezia at the Hallows Ball had not yet left his mind – and the upper floors were a place of his childhood. He and Milliardo had played here as children, he mused, as he paused at the doorway of a dusty room. The shelves were empty – the paint faded and the windows stained with pigeon droppings. Heero supposed the playroom hadn't been used for years – not since Milliardo had tired of his toys and gone onto bigger things. There was that day, one of the many, when Heero had suggested something as foolish as climbing out onto the rooftop of the corner room, where the window opened just above the gentle slope of the terrace roof and one could climb out and sunbathe on the tiles. Milliardo, as always, had blanched as first, and then spurred on by Heero's determined fearlessness, had agreed. They had spent hours there, Heero thought, and so many days, as he drifted away from the room and into the hall again.  
  
He had met Wufei somewhere in these halls. He remembered a solemn child who was more intelligent, more literate, than even than the young princess. He remembered a grave face, with large dark eyes – slanted like spiced almonds – and a very gentle smile. He remembered the Fu-Chin noble, young as he was, teaching him to read: Heero himself fiercely determined, lost in the cushions of an armchair as Wufei peered patiently over the side. He remembered the day Wufei had left for his court back in that ancient, eastern country of dragons and silk robes. They had both been so young, no more than six or seven years, but Wufei had turned to him on the steps of the palace, that funny, little, earnest child, and declared Heero his brother. "For always," he had said, "I will think of you as my brother for always – for you have honour beyond even the greatest warriors of our homeland."  
  
And Wufei had returned five years later, for the crowning of the 12-year- old Queen, and the friendship he and Heero had shared as children was instantly restored as young adults. He taught Wufei archery, swordsmanship, horse-riding, wrestling, and Wufei had taught him the appreciation of a good poem, the ability of the artist to paint pictures with only words. And when Wufei had developed a liking for the young Lady Meiran – empress-heir of the northern part of his own country – Heero had been there to tease him mercilessly. Just as when Heero had fallen (and fallen hard) for the pageboy that ran the Chancellor's errands, Wufei had been there to torment him just as bad. When Wufei's mother passed away, when Heero's sister was killed accident – (Heero's mind stumbled in that memory) – was killed in the storm, they had been brothers for each other then too. Heero knew Milliardo had always been a bit jealous of that friendship; he knew he had grown apart from the prince in the later years of their childhood. Milliardo was a bit... clumsy in his adolescence, and tended to do or say things that annoyed or exasperated Heero. He felt rather guilty about that, and would have liked to think that the prince's attitude no longer bothered him as much, but he knew he could never trust him as he did Wufei.  
  
Indeed, he had never trusted //anyone// as much as he did Wufei. Wufei, who was now locked in the cellars of the palace for a rape Heero knew he had not committed. Yes, he had been in the gardens, and yes, he was angry over Treize's behaviour, as the justice was oh-so-quick to point out, but the mask he was found with, the accused mask that the Lady Noin remembered, that was not his, as the justice was oh-so-quick to forget. Wufei would not commit rape. Wufei, the poet, the scholar, the incorruptible. The still-growing young man overflowing with justice and honour and the unassailable desire to make the world beautiful again. He was not the rapist. Heero knew this, and even with this knowledge running through his head he, being the rational youth he was, began to run down a list of those who could have. There were many men who desired the lady – this was true, but few who would attack the Queen's own friend, and few who would risk the wrath of the Deutschland nobles. The rapist would have to be either very brave, or very stupid.  
  
Trieze Kushrenada immediately sprung to mind, even as Heero defined the criteria. His rivalry with Wufei over the Lady Meiran would be enough to frame the Fu-Chin noble, and he was quite brave – but Heero knew he preferred to have others do the 'dirty work' and claim the rewards for himself. He was Catholic, against the compromises of the Queen, and a well known rival to those that supported her – such as the Fu-Chin's present dynasty, Li. However, he was not known for being vulgarly overt about his beliefs. He was smooth, manipulative, and charmingly seductive with rather twisted reasoning – not blatant enough to commit such a crime. Besides, he had been inside, dancing with the Lady Meiran. He was not the rapist.  
  
There was the young guard of Deutschland, Mueller Kraut. Heero had heard him talking to his friend the day of the ball as he passed the Deutschland compound of the palace. They had been discussing Lady Noin, Heero knew that gloating tone well enough, but had fallen silent as he passed. Perhaps them...? Maybe...  
  
And then there was the prince himself, Milliardo Peacecraft. A well-known fact, but even more so by Heero (the prince's companion) that the prince lusted after the lady. But Milliardo was a child, still, in so many ways. He was nervous and self-conscious, not stupid. He couldn't have... Heero paused. Well, then again... he had not been seen by anyone the entire night, and if the circumstances had been accommodating...  
  
Heero sighed with annoyance as he leaned against the turret room window, stirring up dust and clearing the obscured pane, and he was about to turn away when a figure caught his eye. A figure on the roof of the terrace, knees pulled up to his chest, a golden circlet around his fair head. Without a second thought, Heero swung open the window and pulled his upper body through the opening.  
  
"My Lord."  
  
Milliardo jumped, and as he registered Heero's presence, Heero saw something besides surprise flashed in his eyes.  
  
"Ah... Heero," he said jovially. "Funny we should both remember this today."  
  
"Mm," Heero agreed as he swung his legs over the windowsill and onto the roof.  
  
"Rather unpleasant weather," the prince remarked, a little too loudly to be a joke; a little to forced to be natural.  
  
"Very unpleasant," Heero echoed, settling down beside the blond prince, pulling his knees to his chest.  
  
There was silence for a good minute or so; Heero closed his eyes and tried to forget the stifling heat and stifling worries, but he felt Milliardo fidgeting rather uncomfortably beside him. The prince only did that when he was decidedly unsure of what to say, Heero knew that.  
  
"Noi – The entourage from Deutschland, are they still present?" The prince blurted.  
  
Heero shook his head. "They retired to a country chateau, yesterday."  
  
"Ah," Milliardo sighed. "I'm glad. I was afraid they would have left for Deutschland already."  
  
"No, they wouldn't have. They must stay for the trial." Heero could almost feel Milliardo tense at his words.  
  
"Of course," the prince's voice was so quiet, it sounded like a breath of wind.  
  
Heero stayed silent. He had learned a long time ago that if he kept quiet, people who liked to be told what to do, such as the Prince, would become nervous, and say things they might have not otherwise said. And again it was proving true. Already he knew the prince was responsible in some way for what had transpired at the ball – if only for Milliardo's badly- disguised anxiety of the subject, and not the well-known fact of his obsession with the Lady Noin.  
  
"Pity… about what happened, hé?"  
  
That did it. Heero turned to the prince decisively and held the flickeringly nervous eyes with his own.  
  
"Why did you do it?" He asked, his voice calmly interested – not betraying the anger he felt.  
  
The prince started, his wide eyes attempted a look at confusion, but as was his nature, was unable to disguise the truth. That childish look of guilt and fear curled up in a cord of tension in the prince's throat, all the way to his brow, which suddenly became very shiny with sweat.  
  
"Wh-what are you suggesting? He sputtered, now trying to look indignant.  
  
Heero kept his gaze steady, and did not speak.  
  
Milliardo's hands scrabbled frantically on the shingles as he rose to his feet. "I could have you arrested... locked away... for saying such things..." he muttered. But the threat lost all potency at the pathetic, almost dribbling, tone of the words.  
  
"You won't," Heero said.  
  
Milliardo's mouth made little gaping noises; it was obvious he was too frightened to be angry.  
  
"She will know it wasn't Wufei," Heero continued, keeping his eyes locked with the Prince's as he rose to standing.  
  
"P-Perhaps... but she will not know it was..." Milliardo stumbled over the sentence, clamping his mouth shut on his own condemnation before it could fall from his lips.  
  
"I will tell them."  
  
Heero knew he had made a mistake the moment he uttered the words. The look of absolute maniacal fear in Milliardo's eyes made his body tense in response to the threat of physical retaliation. Milliardo was taller and heavier than him, and they did happen to be on top of a turret rooftop. The Prince's eyes were gleaming sharply, like a cornered animal; like the heretics, the Protestants, he had seen burned at the stake as a child before the time of Relena's reign.  
  
"You won't."  
  
Heero narrowed his eyes.  
  
"You won't, and you //can't//." Milliardo repeated, "Because I know something about you, Heero."  
  
Even Heero couldn't quell the dark twist of agony in his lower stomach as the words slithered past the prince's lips. He looked so different now... like a coiled cobra – an eagle... his face like a mask Heero had never seen before.  
  
"Do you want me to tell the world? I could, and they'd believe me – because it's true. I could announce it to everyone... and then, who would listen to Heero Yuy, murder -"  
  
"You raped Lady Noin!" Heero snarled, biting off the last of the prince's words.  
  
"You killed your sister!" Milliardo snarled back; his voice rising into crow of triumph.  
  
Unable to deny it, Heero could find no appropriate response.  
  
"If you tell them... if you tell anyone, Monsieur Kushrenada will know and then he will tell me and you will be finally discovered for that //act// you committed! Can you imagine your parents, Heero? It would break their heart... to know that, that //accident//... had really been the fault of their eldest - "  
  
"E-nough!" Heero roared, lunging forward and grabbing the prince by the frills of the tunic, almost lifting him off his feet. "We will say no more of this! No more! Ever. Do you understand? Not one of us will utter such words about the other again!"  
  
There was a loud rush of wind that whirled over the rooftop, which twisted Milliardo's long hair into an aura of golden rays around his head, and which eventually quieted to leave Heero's rough breathing as the only audible sound.  
  
The prince's eyes, which had become wide with fear at Heero's violence, melted into content slivers of ice-blue.  
  
"Agreed," he murmured. "No more of this will be said. To anyone."  
  
Heero let go of the prince's tunic and took a unsteady step backwards – away from the permanent perversion of his old friend's face, that infuriatingly confident grin that made no sense in front of a mind so weak.  
  
"Good day then, Heero," Milliardo smirked; before he turned and vaulted through the window to leave Heero on the rooftop, completely alone.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
eep. clichés are evil. I keep telling myself that. ^-^'' 


	7. Part 7

1 Author: Imo-chan  
  
Title: With Quill in Hand – pt 6  
  
2 Genre: AU. Shakespeare. ^_^  
  
3 Disclaimers: All not mine. Except for the excerpts from the play at the beginning. Those are Wufei's. And no one would want them, anyway. ^-^'''  
  
4 Summary: A story about the G-boys as a troupe of Shakespearian-type actors struggling with treachery, guilt, and puberty. ^.^ Quatre's voice breaks and in his place, Duo-the-street-punk is cast across from Heero in the lead female role, while Wufei has to deal with the ever-present threat of eviction and some demons from his past.  
  
5  
  
Warnings: AU - set in a made-up world very similar to Great Britian during the Renaissance, but not exactly (just cause I don't wanna be historically correct!) Yaoi in later parts, 1x2, 4x?. Angst, Evil Zechs, SUPER-evil Treize, non-graphic rape. A bit of humor.. come on, Wufei's a playwright and Heero's an actor.. *cough* that's gotta be good for a few laughs. Plus, Crazy!Dorothy. Yay!!  
  
Notes: no play excerpt this time around. ;_; I was too drained. .  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
[1567, April 19th, the town of Hathaway]  
  
There were two seated at the table, a Lady and her Lord. The room was completely quiet; the only light came from three red candles placed on the sideboard. The fireplace near the doorway was cold, blanketed in scattered ash, grey and white. The Lady shifted her hands from where they lay neatly folded in her lap.  
  
"Please don't get up yet, Meiran. We still have things that must be discussed."  
  
She fixed her husband with a cool glance. "Of course."  
  
"Excellent," he gestured to the servant standing silently by the door. He waited until the plates and dishes had been cleared from the table before resuming speech again. "He has left, then."  
  
"Has he."  
  
"Did he not tell you, Meiran?"  
  
"I have not seen him, my Lord, since the last day of the trial."  
  
Trieze's eyes flashed. "Liar."  
  
"I assure you, I have not seen him."  
  
"He has not told you where he has gone?"  
  
"No."  
  
"And the Winner child?"  
  
Mieran rose quickly from her chair. "My Lord. My family has forbidden me to see him, speak of him, or even to think of him. As you must know, above all else I cherish the will of my family and would never dream of disobeying their wishes. I know nothing of him, where he has gone, or who has gone with him. I will never speak of him again - in all truth - and know nothing except the duties I have as your wife and to my Queen."  
  
Trieze chuckled richly. "Well, then. That will be satisfactory. You may go, Mieran."  
  
"Yes, my Lord," she replied smoothly, gathering her skirts in her fingers and sweeping from the room.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
[1569, May 8th, the town of Hathaway]  
  
Duo had to admit to himself, he was beginning to feel a little daunted by the sudden turn his life had taken. Up until before lunchtime of this present day, he had considered himself an easy-going, no-holds-barred kind of fellow, the kind of person who knew how to make the best with the worst. And, truthfully, he was used to the worst – almost sickeningly so, so that he had adapted a weird, cheerfully cynical personality that seemed to jump out into the foreground at every opportunity it got.  
  
Duo was fine with who he was, and perfectly adapted to the lifestyle he lived. He liked sleeping in a different place every night; he liked stealing bread and helping his fellows and the children on the streets. He knew who he was, who he liked, and who he didn't and...  
  
Well, all truth be told, the man standing in front of him was the //worst// kind.  
  
Duo knew he was supposed to hate him. He was one of those //fallen// - one of those nobles that had slipped from graces and didn't know any better to suck it up and admit they were wrong and no longer decorated in diamonds and peacock plumes. He was one of the poor, threadbare, haughty, //middle- class// men – he was the kind that paraded down the muddy streets with their dirty, worn boots pretending like the footsteps they left behind glinted with gold. He was one of those.  
  
Duo was also fairly certain he was completely insane.  
  
So really, Duo mused to himself, there shouldn't have been any question in this situation. He should have completely rejected the offer, possibly spit at the man's feet (that was always a nice touch)... yes, he would have done well – done right – to do that.  
  
//So WHY am I still here?!//  
  
The man turned towards him and handed him a piece of paper.  
  
//Ah, merde... I'm in deep this time.//  
  
- - - - - - - - -  
  
"Here," Wufei untied the ribbon holding a roll of parchment papers together and handed them to the newest addition of the Queen's Men, who was curled in a large cedar chair in the bedroom above the stage of the Globe Theatre.  
  
Gathered in the small, wooden-paneled room, the setting rays of the sun stained the troupe member's clothes a scarlet red, creating smudged shadows on the walls. Trowa, the tall, quiet man of so many written words, was leaning up against the closed door. Quatre, the mysteriously kind and noble young man – almost a child – was perched on the edge of the bed. Heero Yuy, that snide, rude, short-tempered enigma was bent over an old tunic, studiously plunging his needle in and out of the old, faded cloth, still with that dark scowl imprinted on his face.  
  
Turning back to the pages rolled in his fingers, Duo sighed. The paper whispered in his hands as he ran his fingers over the black, spidery lettering, lifting the pages and shuffling them around in his grip.  
  
"I'm... I'm sure it's wonderful," he grinned at length. "There's a problem, though."  
  
Wufei looked wanted to clutch at his head and scream.  
  
"What's the problem?" Quatre asked brightly, leaning helpfully over Duo's shoulder.  
  
"I can't read it," Duo shrugged.  
  
"Well," Quatre conceded, taking the paper from his hands and laughing, "I know his handwriting is hard to decipher," – he earned a withering glance from Wufei – "but you'll get used to - "  
  
"No, no, no..." Duo laughed. "Quatre? Quatre. Quatre, I can't read."  
  
"You can't read," Wufei repeated darkly, completely dumbfounded. He looked, flabbergasted, at Heero. "He can't read."  
  
Heero shrugged, scowling, and turned back to his sewing. "He's your stray, you teach him to do the tricks. It's not my fault."  
  
"Pardon me?" Duo half-leapt to his feet, eyes blazing, braid whipping out behind him. "Did you just call me a //stray//? Did you just compare me to a //dog//?!"  
  
Heero smirked.  
  
"That's it!" Duo launched himself at the bent back, as Trowa stepped forcefully in front of the charge, taking Duo's wrath full in his chest.  
  
"Finit! I don't care whose noble bastard you are, Heero Yuy!" Duo shrieked around Trowa's shoulder. "No one calls me names with //that// kind of cowardly face and walks away with both their bal - !"  
  
"Duo!" Quatre admonished shrilly, his voice warbling.  
  
Duo backed off from Trowa, his breathing heavy and his eyes fixed darkly on Heero, who had turned back to his sewing. Glancing skittishly at Wufei, Duo winced angrily, his gaze falling to the ground apologetically.  
  
"... uh..." his lips were still shaking with anger, and he found himself hard pressed to face any on of the other men in the room.  
  
"... I'm... I'm sorry..." he managed to mutter. Then, letting out a quiet, resigning sigh, he moved quickly to the door; his head bowed so as to hide the colour of embarrassment on his cheeks.  
  
Wufei blinked.  
  
Duo was through the door and three steps down before he realized he was still holding the pieces of parchment that the playwright had given him. With a sharp oath he spun on his heel, bounded back up the stairs, and flung them onto the desk near the door with another mumbled apology. Turning to go again, his face hot and his mind berating him for his big mouth and uncontrollable sense of non-existent pride, he heard Wufei's voice behind him.  
  
"Quatre," he sounded... //bewildered//, of all things. "Where is he going?"  
  
"Uhm..." Quatre's voice responded, and despite his embarrassment, Duo slowed on the sixth step. "I think he's leaving."  
  
"Duo Maxwell!"  
  
At the sound of the bellow, he froze on the eighth step.  
  
"Are you //leaving//?!" Wufei sounded absolutely incredulous.  
  
"Eh... yes...?"  
  
"Why? We've discussed hardly anything of what I wanted to cover with you."  
  
"Uhm... but... I..."  
  
"Do you have a previous engagement?"  
  
"... no."  
  
"Then where are you //going//?"  
  
"I thought you wouldn't... want me anymore..."  
  
"...What?! Why? Because you yelled at //him//?" Wufei barked a sharp exclamation of laughter. "I yell at him every second I get! He's a complete twit! I'm glad someone else has the level of intelligence to put the brat in his place every so often – the only reason no one here does is because they're either too nice or too quiet!"  
  
And, the strange thing was, Duo noticed, that not a single person in the room – neither Trowa, nor Quatre, nor even //Heero Yuy// - seemed to take offence at this outburst.  
  
//What a //strange// group of people...// his mind chuckled.  
  
"So," Wufei looked at him quite somberly. "Are you leaving?"  
  
Duo had to laugh.  
  
"Of course not."  
  
//I should be quite comfortable here...//  
  
- - - - - - - -  
  
"That was a very nice thing you did for Duo today," Quatre smiled as he toed off his boots.  
  
"Hm?" Wufei said from his desk.  
  
"You know," Quatre placed his coat on his hook. "Making him feel better about that confrontation with Heero at the beginning of the meeting. After, you know, I could tell he was terribly embarrassed – and what you said made him feel much – "  
  
Wufei glanced up at him. "What //are// you talking about?"  
  
Quatre opened his mouth, and then a strange look crossed his face, and his lips closed tightly together with a shake of his head.  
  
"Never mind," he laughed knowingly and moved to the pair of untidy beds in the corner of the small room. Wufei settled himself at his desk and lit a candle before pulling out his quill and inkbottle to begin his work as Quatre stripped the beds and then began to remake them from the fresh pile of linens stacked neatly in the corner between the beds.  
  
"Heero was in a strange mood today," Wufei muttered after a while, half to himself.  
  
"Did you notice it too?" Quatre frowned as he fluffed the pillow and smoothed the blankets.  
  
"Oh yes," Wufei rolled his eyes as he pulled out a piece of slightly wrinkled parchment. "Even more pathetically stuffy than usual," he grumbled. "With a generous portion of the 'I'm an over-compensating, candied-apple mule of a noble' stick shoved up his rear end."  
  
Quatre didn't even bother to question //that// insult. He knew it never did any good, anyway.  
  
"I've never seen him act like this before," Wufei muttered after a pause, directing a scowl at the blank parchment, before picking his quill up from the desk. "Well, not this extreme, at any rate..."  
  
"Mm," Quatre nodded, smoothing the sheets one more time before perching on the edge of the bed. "Well, it really is too bad they don't like each other," he mused.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Heero and Duo."  
  
"That they what?" Wufei looked up.  
  
"That they don't like each other...?" Quatre repeated slowly.  
  
There was a pause as Wufei's eyebrows rose slowly to his hairline. Then he snorted.  
  
Quatre blinked. "What?" He asked shrilly, convinced he was missing a very funny joke.  
  
"Nothing," Wufei dipped his quill in the inkpot.  
  
"Wufei!~"  
  
"It's nothing, Quatre," he scrawled a few words, dipped –  
  
"Wu-ufei!"  
  
"Qua-atre! Go to bed! It's not that important."  
  
Quatre huffily blew out his bedside candle, and there was angry thrashing of the bed sheets before the blond gave a sharp sigh, and the room fell quiet. The only sound was the arrhythmic, soothing scratch-scratch of the quill, the occasional 'chink' reverberating against the inkpot, and the murmur of the flames from the small fireplace. Outside, there was the sound of the tavern door thudding open, and a rowdy group of villagers making their way up the street, the noises muffled by the closed windows, the light from the street lanterns smoothly rippled, like water against the leaded glass.  
  
"Wufei?"  
  
Wufei snorted. "Go to sleep."  
  
There was an intake of air, as though Quatre wanted to say more, but in the moments, the minutes, and hours that followed, no words came. Late into the night, there was only the whisper of the flames and the scratching of the quill.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
[1569, May 8th, the capital Clasgrou, Scotlanden]  
  
"Majesty, a message has arrived from the Baron."  
  
She whirled from the shadows to face her Duke-Consol, brightly translucent eyes ablaze in her pale face. Wearing her habitual, sweeping black skirts and high, starched collar; her white-blond hair pulled tight and curled in a towering mass above the royal crown, she pictured perfectly the image of imperial intimidation.  
  
"Well, it took him long enough," her lips curled in a tight smile as he handed her a stiff piece of parchment which was tied in a thick, black ribbon. She unfurled it delicately - perching in the cushioned seat arranged for her in the center of the room – and her devil's tongue eyebrows twitched minutely, almost in amusement. With a soft chuckle of satisfaction, she rolled the parchment and handed it back to the old man at her side.  
  
"Majesty?" he fingered the roll of paper.  
  
"Call in a scribe," she commanded, snapping her fingers absently. "Compose a response to The Lightning Baron, Zechs Merquise in the current residence of the town of Hathway, Frençia."  
  
A devious smile tugging at her lips, she raised her hands and ran her fingertips lightly over the jewels in her crown. "Tell him I think we have what we need to set the plan into motion..."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
(dun dun duuuuuuuuuuuuuun)  
  
^-^''' 


End file.
